I wrote this poem about a million years ago. But I thought it might amuse you as we approach the mince pies and lashings of mulled wine festive period .... Note the shape of the poem.
I went on a diet on January First.
By Feb I felt quite a success.
By March I was thirteen
pounds lighter and
could get on
I stayed on
a plateau, but
by May I was finding
it tough. In June I had
quite a few bad days. By
July I had had quite enough.
I didn't do much until Christmas
But the pounds were beginning to tell.
So I ate fit to burst until January First ..
Popular posts from this blog
What? She still exists? Where has she been, then? On a bus all this time? Those of you kind enough to care may have noticed that my last post on this blog was August 2022. I was busy editing my new novel 'Cuckoo in the Nest' and things drifted in terms of regular blogging. Before I knew it, I had cancelled myself. But ... RESURRECTION! I have re-appeared on Substack which allows people to blog but also has lots of other features akin to social media only less toxic (so far). If you'd like to keep receiving the same kind of material I was posting regularly on here, please do come along and subscribe. Go right here right now before you forget to subscribe for free via email. In the meantime, my archive of Blogger posts is still here and will remain for eternity if the rumours are true about the internet. So, you have plenty of time to catch up should you wish. Otherwise, see you on Substack!
My try-to-get-fitter walk in the fields today was a silent one. I usually listen to the radio through earphones but have lost one of the soft earbuds and nothing spoils a walk more than having hard plastic nudging up against your fragile tympanic membrane. The BBC's 'Woman's Hour' is a brilliant programme but loyalty has limits. It was disconcerting, walking in silence. Listening to radio distracts from the disturbing reality that my legs are propelling me in forward motion because, if I think too hard about this, I frighten myself. Today, while walking, I had to listen to my own thoughts. And now I've listened to my own thoughts, I remember why I like radio better. The inside of my head is like a wastepaper basket. Be grateful that I only offer you a brief excerpt. Oh, look, that bird is - / Where did I put that mark scheme. I'll need it for - / My shoes are getting muddier./ Maybe mash with the fish tonight / really muddy / The trees are definitely more
I'm writing a short story called 'Heat'. I haven't finished it yet because I can't decide how it ends but it's about a couple in conflict and begins, 'They say domestic wrangles are usually about sex or money but whoever they are has overlooked thermostats.' The story features two people who marry and move in with each other, never having shared a house with a partner before. They are about to find out that there are 'three of them in this marriage': the woman, the man, and a little white dial fixed to the kitchen wall. It's categorically not based on personal experience the story of my whole life. It's summer now, though, which is a welcome break from the thermostat friction between me and my spouse. Instead, we replace it with light-hearted talk bitter confrontations about whether drawing all the curtains in the house, locking every window tight and sitting as silent and still as death in the eerie darkness really does keep you