If it’s too good to be true, then it
probably is.
Wednesday 27 March 2019
Culinary Avoidance
What’s good for the goose is good for
the gander. not to be force-fed, killed and then turned into foie-gras
Tuesday 26 March 2019
Trauma Counselling
Today, I read a poem, and now I need Trauma Counselling. ‘Hello,’
I say, into my phone, ‘is that the Poetry Trauma Counselling Hotline?’ but I
have failed to dial the number because , of course, there isn’t one; the Poetry Trauma Hotline
does not exist. ‘How embarrassing,’ I say to myself. ‘Not as embarrassing as
reading poetry,’ my inner critic replies.
I decide, instead, to phone the Embarrassed Englishman’s
Hotline, but they are too busy to take my call and I find myself 1,457, 694th
in the queue. I hang up. Mainly because of the muzak.
I spend the next seven minutes deciding not
to go to A and E, the nearest thing the NHS has to a trauma unit (or does the
NHS have trauma units? And what is a trauma unit equal to? A mile? A ton? Four
cubic kilometres? A week? I decide to stop asking myself flippant questions.
After all, this is an emergency.)
I reject the idea that I should pretend to phone the
Samaritans and fabricate a conversation along the lines of, ‘Is reading a poem some sort of euphemism,
sir? What type of poem was it? How
many did you read?’ because it would
be crassly insensitive.
My wife walks in, ‘ ‘Sup?’ she asks (she doesn’t; she only
ever speaks in properly constructed sentences, with subject, verb, predicate,
and – interestingly – punctuation).
‘Today, I read a poem,’ I explain, ‘and now I need Trauma
Counselling.’
‘Open speech marks Was the poem you read one of yours
question mark close speech marks’ (Now you see why I abbreviated her previous
question.)
‘Normally, I would say yes,’ I reply, ‘but this was one of
those found poems you hear about.’
I point to the piece of paper on the table.
‘Open speech marks That apostrophe 's my To Do List
full-stop. It apostrophe 's not a poem full-stop close speech marks.’
‘Tomayto/Tomarto,’ I say. ‘I read it as a poem, ergo it is a
poem, ergo I need Trauma Counselling.’
‘Open speech marks ellipsis close speech marks’ she says.
‘What?’ I ask. Now it’s her turn to point.
I look again at my wife’s To Do List (and what’s a poem but
a glorified list?). It is written on infinity paper, the only paper long
enough to accommodate all of the things on a teacher’s To Do List/Poem (cry for
help?).
‘Open speech marks I apostrophe 'm the one who needs Trauma
Counselling full-stop close speech marks’ she says.
I read the first line of the List/Poem/Cry-for-Help and set
about buying all of the ice-cream in a five-mile radius (Trauma Counselling/Comfort
Eating, potayto/potarto, sort of thing).
Tomorrow I will hit the Off Licences.
We’ll take it from there.
Thursday 21 March 2019
Wednesday 20 March 2019
Tuesday 19 March 2019
Duck
quacks quacks
If it Fish
Leave alone
Desperate
Pat Pat
Desperate times
call for desperate measures. desperate Pat and his black and
white cat
Monday 18 March 2019
Showstopper
For my showstopper on ‘Unheard-of Poets: Bake Off Special’,
I choreographed (you have to have dance in a ‘showstopper’, surely? Otherwise,
what kind of show is it?) a dozen meringues dancing to a specially commissioned
song (which the composer, me, called ‘Let’s All Bake Paul Hollywood, Literally’).
Getting the meringues to the right exterior crunch/interior chewiness is usually
the tricky part with baking these things, but for this showstopper, it was
getting the meringues to co-ordinate their dance moves with their singing (fact:
harder than it sounds).
Culinarily, the meringues could best be described as ‘less
than satisfactory, even for a gimmicky version of this show’ (this said by a
rather defensive Mr Hollywood, who was probably still reeling from the
unflattering chorus about his general air of smugness/creepiness), but the
singing and dancing were surprisingly adequate (‘by meringue musical theatre
standards’ – apparently).
Henceforth, I shall choreograph all of my kitchen creations
to original compositions. My vegan ballroom-dancing (cha-cha-cha) shepherd’s
pie (word and music, ‘I Saw My Sheep Come Sailing By’, by self) is coming along
particularly well.
Orange Crayons
I redraft my latest unfinished sentence
on the walls of the library.
Orange crayons are my favourite writing implement,
or is it utensil? (or is
it implement?)
Picasso claimed his artistic ambition
was to paint like a child
(he never quite scaled those heights,
in my humble/ignorant opinion).
I tried this as a poet, but when you’re limited
to monosyllabic words, mainly misspelt,
then you end up sounding as competent
as an Instagram
poet (well, I say poet).
Writing in orange crayon
is my way of compromising
with my inner childpoet
(neologism dictionary compilers
please take note).
Light-bulb
The linen light-bulb was a mistake.
No fibre should be expected
to take that amount of heat
without bursting into flames;
it just isn’t reasonable.
Pockets
My trousers have a thousand pockets
for the many unintentional journeys
which I have to make
in the presence of my own company
and no one else’s.
Saturday 16 March 2019
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