 |
| Nathan Dyer: he shoots, he scores. And he doesn't look like this. |
Other than that, I've had a significantly 'cat lady' sort of day. As in I did things that old ladies do (ie, go food shopping at Sainsbury's and spend over an hour comparing the size of peppers and making agonizing decisions between whether to buy Wiltshire or Yorkshire ham at the counter; wash and hang up my clothes to dry; clean the kitchen; go for a cup of tea with a good friend). The only non-cat-lady thing I did was go to the gym. And I said hello to the dog this morning.
 |
| You have to get it right when faced with the life-changing choice over Anchor or Kerrygold |
I have done shockingly little work for my seminar tomorrow. Dylan Thomas isn't half demanding every week. But I want to go to the lecture because my lecturer fascinates me. Ahem.
On Thursday I did a poetry reading at The Howl at Mozart's, which is always one of my favourite ways to spend a Thursday. As usual, I planned on a glass or two to relax me beforehand.
As usual I downed so much wine I can't remember getting home and was nearly sick in my wastepaper bin and apparently ate dry porridge oats. I'm not entirely sure what this was supposed to achieve, or how this was in any way appetizing, but I guess it's healthier than waking up with a face full of kebab and cheese.
 |
| According to WebMD, your symptoms clearly mean you either have syphilis, a broken arm or are dead. |
If you're that ill, go to bed.
My first two poems were 'Craig Y Nos' and 'Bones', found on my poetry blog www.goodnightindigo.blogspot.com if you want to read them and allow me to ruin your evening with a cheeky bit of misery and pain and all that.
The third, the comedy pisstake one which I wrote in about 5 minutes and is atrociously written but used to lighten the mood a bit went like this:
An arrow has
nuzzled me deep in my chest
in the red
space between the white rib and the breast,
and Cupid is
crouched in the lilac moon
waving
Prince Charming from out of the gloom.
When he came
here to find me he didn’t wear white
nor ride a
dark steed through the moors of the night,
but pulled
up beside me and offered a ride
in his Fiat
500 and I jumped inside.
His manners
were shifty, his hair like spaghetti,
a knight
from the depths of the mystical Sketty,
his eyes
were like flames and bright with desire,
while kids
set neighbourhood cars on fire.
Our mouths
opened up like the slow blooming rose,
my lips on
his and my nose to his nose,
it could
have been perfect, true love’s first kiss
if he hadn’t
suggested we go and get pissed
and took me
to Uplands to drink and watch bands,
nod heads to
the music and sit holding hands.
Prince
Charming was silent, I let out a sigh
when I
noticed his hand creeping up past my thigh,
and we went
for a meal where the venue was tense
with roses
and cards and the air of pretence,
a man on one
knee asked his girl to be wed,
most likely
on two later on in the bed.
The
fourteenth of February, pressure is on,
right shade
of underwear, right choice of song,
right choice
of menu, right venue to dine,
remortgage
the house to pay for the wine.
But I took
up my glass and drained it like Coke,
waited for
Charming to finish his pork
and told him
the meal was a real delight
but I
thought he and I should call it a night.
So I took up
my presents, my cards and my jacket,
my blooms
from the garage and cigarette packet,
and left my
Prince Charming crumpled and hurt,
weeping
alone in the depths of dessert.
It’s not
that I’m shallow or hate the word love,
despise the
word soulmate or powers above,
but
Valentine’s love is a rose in its ways,
plastic or
thorny and dead in a day.
I told you it was atrocious, but it did get a few laughs and one old bloke said it was "well cool" so if I've made people happy then I'm happy too no matter how much of an idiot I make myself look in public. I just had to write something silly which reflects my hatred of the idea of all the falseness and commercialism of Valentine's Day; if you love someone, surprise them with flowers on a day when they don't expect it, not because Tesco is hammering it into your head that you have to buy these £20 roses on the 14th or you're a shit partner.
A simple "I love you", a heartfelt spontaneous message of love is so much more meaningful when it's genuine and not because you have an obligation to write it in a card. When I love someone, I let them know far more often than one designated day of the year over a plate of overpriced steak.
Urgh, am I getting sentimental? Quick, fetch me a cat before I puke a rainbow.
Anyway, as I was reading this, who was there in the audience? No, not my father. Not my ex. No, not David Hasselhoff.
It was my poetry tutor.
As in the poetry tutor who made me my Masters offer. I have been having anxious visions of seeing "Inbox (1)" on my student email account and a message of regret that my offer has been withdrawn due to crimes against poetry.
 |
| This is how my Friday mornings post-Mozart's feel |
Roisin kindly helped me home. Thank you, Roisin.
Friday was spent with a hangover so I avoided everyone and sat in my creative writing seminar convinced that either the Grim Reaper, a Dementor or Darth Vader (same thing) was punching me in the skull and playing football with my queasy stomach. I had a head like a cracking egg in an omelette of pain and an oesophagus of burning hell-flame.
And had work to look forward to.
Remember, kids: guns don't kill people, shiraz does.
No comments:
Post a Comment