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A Woodland in Autumn
I’m standing on the edge
of a woodland in autumn.
No birds sing
and wet, yellow leaves
are threshed to the bone by a wind
which blows over the desolate gardens,
the unkempt flowerbeds,
and into the shadows of the wood
where it too is lost.
I'm standing on the edge
of a woodland in autumn.
two black swans
I am a daughter,ffice
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He is my lover.
I was a daughter
But not anymore.
We are two black swans
Borne on the breast of the wind,
High above the coal-black sea.
We're following a thread of light
That traces the bridge
Between two lands –
The place we are leaving
And our new home.
In the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.
I wish they'd all fuck off.
Today I watched an insignificant blob
Of lamb-white cloud
Release a misty arm towards another
Cloud which filled up half the sky.
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However far the tiny cloud
Reached out towards this other
Was however far it moved away,
Until they seemed destined to dance forever,
In a lonesome cloud ballet.
But then something changed in heaven:
Cold white arms began to twine together
And the distance between them fell away.
Then, at last, they touched, and joined together,
And in that form remained forever,
Until the day they fell to earth
In tiny drops of rain.
The Radio Play
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This is as much as I can remember of the finale of what must surely be considered one of the worst plays ever written. It was broadcast on Radio 4 sometime in March. I only caught the last ten minutes of it, but from what I gathered it was some shit about a mismatched couple (who on their own came across as so horrifyingly limp-wristed and one-dimensional that you involuntarily reached for a knife and began to open a vein or two) bidding farewell to their Mark Rothko poster, Ikea couch and cappuccino machine for the day and heading off into the countryside where they discover an old, disused lighthouse. They proceed to have an argument about whether or not it’s pretty before meeting an old man of the sea character who definitely thinks it’s pretty but has to inform the mismatched middle-class arseholes that, regrettably, it’s due to be demolished. Unless, that is, a wealthy benefactor happens to come along and buy the place, presumably with a view to transforming it into one of those tasteful conversions with concealed lighting and ridiculous steel furniture that are so beloved by the unspeakable cunts on Grand Designs. The ensuing dialogue concludes the play:
[SFX: Outside – wind, the sound of waves and, in the distance, a lonely ship’s horn. Then: slow approach of footsteps on shingle. A weathered male voice speaks:]
Old Man: You came back!
Young Woman: Of course - I couldn’t stay away from this wonderful old place. Oh, do sit down please - it’s pretty comfortable…for a rock!
Old Man: Thank you. And how’s that young man of yours?
Young Woman: He’s...not my young man…anymore. We broke up on account of a certain tall, windswept stranger.
Old Man: (tremulous with excitement, palsy and emphysema - plus he had his lad in his hand) You mean you’re going to buy the lighthouse?!?
Young Woman: No, not that, if only. But it is being bought by a conservation trust and I’m in the final round of interviews to work in the gift shop, so, fingers crossed, you might be seeing a lot more of me.
Old Man: Well, that’s wonderful. I am sorry about your relationship though.
Young Woman: Oh, don’t be. We weren’t meant to be together. I was just too blind to see it. I mean, an insufferable romantic and a systems data analyst. It was never going to work!
Old Man: What’s a data analyst when it’s at home?
Old Man & Young Woman together: Who cares!!!!
The unseen naughty bits of Samuel Pepys’ diaryfficeffice" />
March 23rd
Saw a couple of disgraceful looking wenches in the market today. Felt compelled to rush home immediately and bash one out.
March 24th
Went to a very boring meeting on individual liberty and all that emancipation dickwash at The Dolphin. Utter bollocks - if they invite me again I’m going to tell them I’ve got the plague. I really mean it this time. I simply can’t face another evening with those insipid, lickspittle nancy-boys. Still, really looking forward to getting pissed tonight. Hope I don’t shit my breeches again.
March 25th
Dear God, my head is broken. The best that today can offer is that I will, at some stage, feel nearly human again. Some snivelling little urchin just asked me for money when I went outside to get some milk and a loaf of bread. I should have taken after him prong in hand and shown the little bastard the true meaning of a fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay, but I didn’t have the energy. Instead, I gave him a nice dry slap across the side of his face. Felt slightly better.
March 26th
It’s quarter to four in the morning and just getting light across the river. Thought I’d better write up today’s stuff, or yesterday’s stuff, or whatever it is, before I pass out. My cousin, Sancho Pepys, arrived this morning, visiting from the Americas. He’s Portuguese so he can’t keep his cock inside his trousers for more than thirty seconds. I got home from a visit to the printer’s this afternoon (to check on where the bastard had got up to with the corrections I gave him last week) and found him humping old Mrs. Garratt, the housekeeper, on the kitchen table. I was angry at first but then I saw the smile on the old dear’s face and decided to be lenient with them both.
Then this evening we went to the pub. No sooner had we got there than Sancho drank three bottles of wine, pissed in the corner and tried to tickle the landlady’s tits. It wouldn’t have been so bad if the whore hadn’t offered to meet him in the stables. The landlord caught them in flagrante delicto and we both had to leg it. Him and his lads chased us all the way through Cheap waving rusty old swords and bits of broken bottle. We managed to get a river taxi at Old Swan Stairs to take us over to the south bank, but they followed us. So here we are, hiding out in a bush in Southwark for the foreseeable future. It’s freezing, it’s wet and it smells like piss. And my distinguished cousin Sancho has started to snore. Damn his eyes.
Lost in the Supermarket
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-Hello, darling. How are you, how was your day?
-Not very good. I didn’t get much done and I feel like I am going nowhere with this idea.
-(under her breath)Oh dear…(loudly)Darling, what are all these chocolate bars on the counter?
-Those? I just bought those today. Fancied some chocolate.
-It looks like you more than just fancied some chocolate, dear, there must be at least five different multi-packs there.
-Well, I was having a wander around the supermarket, quite enjoying myself really, taking my time. It’s one of the things I enjoy doing when I’m on my own. And I decided I would spoil myself by getting some chocolate - I would ignore all the Christmas stuff, the gammon and crackers and booze, and all the fruit and veg and miles of shampoo and tea bags and buy something just for me for once. But when I got there, I couldn’t decide what I wanted. I suppose I stood there for about half an hour.
-Half an hour? Choosing chocolate? That’s absurd. No-one spends half an hour choosing chocolate.
-Well, I did. I decided I wasn’t going to move until I made the right choice. I always get those sorts of decision wrong, this time it was going to be different. But then I couldn’t decide. I stood there, considering the merits of the various names and special offers, then just looking at all the different colours. There was too much to choose from. And I started to feel nervous about how I looked to all the people who find their favourite chocolate in seconds and go away again. I was afraid they might get the security guard to throw me out for being a pervert. So I tried to concentrate extra hard on what chocolate I was going to buy, because I thought that if I did that I would give off the air of someone really serious about his chocolate. But then I started panicking so I decided to give up on finding the right one and just grabbed a few random packs off the shelves in the hope that together they would cover all the angles of my desire when I got them home. And then - God, I can’t believe this - after wandering around for another ten minutes, trying to find the bleach, I realised I had chosen the wrong chocolate. I didn’t want Fruit & Nut! Far too wholesome. I wanted something synthetic and frivolous, brightly coloured. So I turned around and headed back up Bleach, Cleaners and Kitchenware before I realised that I couldn’t possibly go back to Chocolate and Confectionery. I’d already spent half an hour there. I was sure the other shoppers were looking at me strangely, noticing my greasy hair and the incongruous contents of my shopping basket – bleach and lots of chocolate. I pretended to examine a display of Hoover bags and then headed back towards the checkout, trying not to run. Once I got outside, I walked home and the whole world was silent and silver with morning mist and the people passing me were nothing more than ghosts.