The End

And so we sat on a red tiled roof four stories up, looking out on the town glittering with the streetlights in the dark, and we could have fallen to our deaths but we didn't care, because as we know alcohol sucks the fear from your heart by osmosis. And there we sat arm in arm and you were saying words to me that touched me right in the soul, although I can't remember them precisely because the alcohol blurred them like ink on paper. And though we weren't watching our watches we heard voices crying out across the town, dix, neuf, huit, and the light was all golden, sept, six, cinq,and we held hands I think, quatre, trois, deux, and suddenly the whole year came back to me rolled up in a ball, made small, every thing I saw everything I smelt tasted heard every word I said every word my fingers scratched out, typed out, everything, all at once, cancelling each other out so that in effect it looked like nothing, felt like nothing, un.

Bonne année!

nothing.
everything.
I love.

you.

It was pancakes, actually

I wake.
Above me, my clothes,
hanging next to your clothes above the bed
and you're gone I don't know where,
though from the kitchen
I can smell something
cooking and it
smells like
a future.

The Gift

You sit on a bench in bright sunlight, grinning because I hadn't seen you and had walked the other way
and I'm a bit annoyed because I've got a heavy case and because you didn't bother standing up although I'd come all this way. Beside you is a longboard and I think it's yours. The wheels are the same but the board is different. "You've changed your board", I say. You flip it round to show me. It has new grip. Bright blue. "Do you like it?"
"Pas trop," I say. "Too flashy."

Your face falls. "Its for you."

I'm shocked and silenced. Sorry.
"Tu l'aimes pas?"

It's not that I don't like it no no not at all. I just wasn't expecting it. I said I wanted to learn but I probably didn't mean it. No I definitely didn't. Its just one of those things I say sometimes. What am I going to do with a longboard? It's heavy it doesn't match my shoes I'm going to fall off I'll be terrible I'll look stupid people will laugh at me. And now I've hurt your feelings.
I feel a little burdened. I say nothing.

"I can change the grip. Any colour you like. I can take it off."
I hold your hand and see where the skin has been left rough putting it on in the first place. I sense the hours you'd put in making it neat and perfect for me. I sense the disappointment you're trying to hide.

"Maybe tomorrow you can take me for a ride?" And if I fall off and hurt myself, at least I can say I tried.

Je viens te voir

Here I am again.

Though I've not been here before.

Sleeping on the floor of a ferry

midway across the La Manche in the middle of the night.

Different places, modes of transport,

destinations, even;

but the same feeling in my chest.

Like I'm some pilgrim come to see

a holy relic

(you.)

Days

It seems the days have slipped away like water through a sieve. Looking back into the sink they seem somewhat foreshortened, as though they went quicker than they did. It's a trick of the light, at least, they taught us that in school. And it is, it truly is. Each second took as long as every second has ever taken and the days of our childhood passed no slower, nor any faster. Tell yourself that. Tell yourself that though the year is almost gone it was nonetheless a year of as many seconds, minutes, hours as any other. That you were bored for hours. That you waited in queues for hours, that you were happy and sad and happy again for hours and hours and hours. In your head it's flattened down into some kind of box of photos and you'll say, 'where did the year go?' because that's what we always say. Well don't say it. I won't say it. I won't say it now and I won't say it on my dying day. I refuse to see time that way.

I will see it as a walk in the mountains. The path ahead looks long but once it's done I'll look back and, far below, I'll see where I started from. Foreshortened by the distance. But I'll know how far I've come.

Festive Advice

Never go to the cinema on Boxing Day,
unless you want to sit in a dark room and breathe in
turkey farts.

Presents Past

Christmas Day. 

Not this year but many years ago,

I received a princess dress and a special set

of stones which, when put in some kind of solution

turned into little plastic gems.

What happened to them? 

No trace of them remains. 

I see them in the palm of my hand 

as in a dream. 

What other insight have I to give on a day like this? The church seems emptier, true. Who here still believes the words we repeat? Not I. And who really likes turkey? I don't. Who really means thank you? I do, I still do. And the tree is more beautiful than ever. But the gemstones, what of them? I think of them as I amass my small pile of cherished gifts, worth more in money and practicality than plastic rubies. Where did they go? 

Did they dissolve, perhaps, when we stopped leaving out mince pies, and a glass of milk?

Quality Street

It is Christmas Eve,
But all the Purples are gone
So there is no God.

Found Ring

Then I went into my room, looked at my desk
and it was there.

Lost Ring

Suddenly,
the middle finger on my right hand felt
bare.
Something wasn't there.
Something I never usually ceased to wear
and now it wasn't there.
Something small but also precious,
something delicate and rare,
beloved beyond compare,
and now it wasn't there.
It slipped off without my notice
and vanished into thin air.

Rovers Return

When I come home it feels as though nothing has changed.

Except for Coronation Street, but Mum fills me in on all 

the things I missed.

Deli-rium: Soup of the Day

In the lead up to Christmas we stopped serving sandwiches. We needed the counter space for making hampers, and there wasn't much point ordering in stock that would go off.

The lunch-time regulars weren't best pleased. Some took it well and left with a scotch egg instead. Others took it not so well. One gentleman stormed out because we couldn't do him a ham and cheese on granary, slamming the door behind him.

One thing we could offer still was soup. Everyone likes soup! we thought.
Wrong.
No one wants soup. We sold one or two cups a day, at best. And it didn't seem to matter what flavour it was. Tomato and basil sold just as badly as wild mushroom. People only wanted sandwiches, and because there weren't any, they weren't interested in anything else. It didn't matter what soup we put on the board, no one wanted any.

And because it didn't seem to matter what we wrote on the board, we started writing all kinds of things just to see if anyone would notice. Parrot and Coriander, was the first one. No one batted an eyelid. Then we tried something a little wilder. Flea and Spam. Octopus and Cucumber. Butternut Squash and Sadness. Elephant and Castle.

The customers didn't notice.
Which was probably a good thing because Cream of Anthrax would have gotten us shut down.

Let's pretend it was because of that.

You drove me to the station and when I got out I felt this overwhelming sense of something I couldn't quite place. Of nostalgia, perhaps, or some deep and heavy loss. I felt it in the pit of my stomach.

Then when I got on the train I realised I'd left my hair straighteners at your house.

Sudoku

It's one of those things that people do on trains, and for want of anything better to do, I'm now one of those people. I'm stuck, of course. That stage where you can't put a number anywhere. And suddenly I'm flooded with the thought that everyone in the carriage is watching me, out of the corner of their eye or peering over my shoulder, and that they all know where the numbers go but I don't, and that they're judging me, and I still can't deduce where the nine goes but I can't give up, can't lift my eyes from the page because the Evening Standard has suggested I finish in 30 minutes and because if I didn't, everyone would know. But I'm flummoxed, and I'm getting flustered. Maybe I should pretend my pen has run out and be done with it. 

Memory pool

I just found my Piscine De Coubertin membership card. My stomach sunk to the deep end. My eyes stung. Nostalgia, it seems, is chlorinated

An Image

Once I saw a puddle, in which someone had dropped a bottle of milk. The bottle had burst, and the milk spread out into the murky water.

That is what the sky looks like today.

Sitting on trains

Only fools take the train home on the last day of Michaelmas term. At one of the country's oldest and most reputable universities, fools, of course, are in abundance. Myself being one of them, I joined the throngs of students crammed sardine-like into carriages, encumbered with fat suitcases stuffed with dirty laundry for mothers to wash or full of books that won't be read for essays that won't be completed. There is something strange and comical about wealthy boys in blazers sqatting in train corridors, chinos hitched up to reveal wool odd socks above loafers or brogues. I settled down amongst them, wedged between bags, skirt pulled over crossed knees for modesty's sake thinking, oh, could I not have seen this coming? Then i smiled at the parallel that sprang to my mind: an Indian passenger train loaded with people, sitting on carriage roofs, hanging onto windows, clutching onto metal rungs for dear life, making no complaints as the train lumbers on over rickety tracks in the swarthy heat.

Of course, they hadn't paid £75 return for their seats. The students bristled and brayed, bemoaning their hangovers, their longing for mother's cooking, the disgraceful nature of the British railway system, the injustice of it all. I settled down and braced myself for three hours of pins and needles, countng my blessings

The Gallery is the Coldest Place on Earth

The cold crept up into my bones,
or rather, every shiver of heat crept
out of them. Numb fingers numb toes
numb head, mind dulled into simple,
animal logic by the cold, driven to
mad frustration, grumpiness.
Trudged home bitter and almost
wept when I couldn't find my door keys.

And yet, it was nothing
two friends, a duvet and
Nigella Lawson couldn't fix.

The Star of North Road

This star is made not
of burning hydrogen.
Instead it is composed
of Tin foil and a
Jaffa Cake box.
Not through the desert but down
Cobbled streets it guides
Drunken revellers (not weary magi).
Who come not from the far east but from
Some living room,
up some bailey side-street.
The star shines dimly, dances,
(Flops to one side)
And comes to rest. Wise men
Would find this place stranger still than
any animal shed. But the pilgrims
Enter, nonetheless, and pay their £3
Repects in homage to the new-born king.

And yet He is not there.
It is no place for Him.
Only in abstraction, only in name is this a celebration of his birth.
Whilst filthy, too, this place is far removed;
There are animals, of sorts, and singing, but not that of angels. and here the virgins stand in corners, palms sweating.
The star falls to the dancefloor where
It it is trodden in.
And we sin,
And sin,
And sin.
In pseudo-honour
Of Him.

On Handing in an Essay

The pride that comes from your masterful creation,
the relief that comes from its completion,
Alas, akin only to that one feels
having emptied one's bowels.

The Library Prison

Prisons should be abolished. Instead they should lock offenders in a library. Their ticket to freedom is not measured in time but in essays. Petty thieves must write fifty. Murderers must write 200. The essays will cover a variety of topics, with a heavy focus on ethics and moral philosophy but not excluding any other academic area. Each given title must be explored in depth, critical analysis must be displayed, references must be made and correctly formatted. Illiteracy shall be no excuse. They are there indefinitely; there is time for everything to be learnt. Essays will be marked, say, by masters students looking for extra credit, or retired professors with time on their hands. A minimum standard will be required for the essay to be counted. Improvement must be displayed. Bibliographies must be alphabetised. There will be no plagiarism. Surveillance will be absolute. The best essays might even be published. There will be no internet except perhaps for online journals and academic resources. This does not include Wikipedia. Whilst there will be no deadlines, prisoners must complete all of their assigned essays. Those who do not wish to comply will never be freed.

After they have written a certain number of essays they will then be allowed to specialise, choosing their preferred topics. Finally, their last essay will be a lengthy dissertation or thesis. Then and only then will they be freed.

A Modern St Vincent Millay

"My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends — It gives a lovely light!"

We understand the metaphor. We can picture the candle burning. And writers now will continue to use such imagery, because it remains understood. But its relevance dwindles. Gone are the times when candles and firelight were our only means to fight off the darkness. It remains a pleasing archaism; but should our writing not be modernised to meet the modern world? Should it not reflect our contemporary thoughts, our new, shared psyche? Should we not slough off tired words, clichéd images, just as old technology is cast aside, buried under layers of dust? We live in a time where candles hold scant importance. They have become delicate vanities. We might blow them out and and light the way with bright new similes that burn with white fluorescence, that hold up fiercer beacons of relevance in our dark new lives.

My laptop battery's running low; it will not last the eve;
But it's okay, I've charged my phone, I'll ring you when I leave.

And yet, somehow, these words are meaningless. Utterly trite. We live in a world where urgency is false, transience is illusionary. Convenience surrounds us, enveloping us in constant, blinding light. 
And if we want to escape, it suffices not to blow out our flames. We must unplug ourselves entirely. 

The Tiny Museum of Miniature Objects

Cecilia wanted to be a curator. Open her own museum or gallery. But she didn't have the money, or the location, and she had nothing to put in it.

So, instead, she opened The Tiny Museum of Miniature Objects.
She built it out of cardboard and painted it by hand. It was quite small, but really quite something. The advantage being, of course, that she could make it look however she wanted. Every curator's dream. She kept it simple, for simplicity lends itself rather well to the exhibition of objects of whatever the size. White walls, 'marble' floors, and grand high ceilings that let lots of light in (because they weren't there).  She carefully selected the objects she wished to showcase, even creating minuscule plaques giving the visitor some informative and thought-provoking details on each piece. Then, when it was ready to be unveiled, she sent round invitations announcing the opening night.

Whilst you'd have expected that the name of the museum would have given some kind of a clue, people were none the less a little flummoxed to find themselves staring into what was essentially a cardboard box filled with a handful of knick-knacks. The atmosphere was slightly tense, as it often is in the room of a new exhibition where no-one understands the work, but everyone is keen to pretend to. But after a while, the visitors started to warm to the Tiny Museum of Miniature Objects. Using the magnifying glasses provided, they were able to read the plaques next to each object and learn, for example, that the sad-looking blue-painted porcelain cat had been found in a flea-market in central France, and was one of a pair; or that the rather plain looking stone came from a Northern-English beach on a grim December's day. They noticed the care with which the objects had been presented, put on display, and the simplistic genius of the architecture. The Tiny Museum of Miniature Objects received a glowing appraisal in the local art review, and with the admission fee of 10p a look, Cecilia was soon able to expand outside (if you'll excuse the pun) of the box, and host a whole number of new exhibitions including an installation her friend made out of matchsticks and a piece of performance art by a hairy brown spider.

In Somno Veritas

Last night, you told me, I sleep-talked. Rolled over and held you and said, "Je veux pas que tu partes. Je veux pas que tu quittes l'Angleterre". And then, as if nothing had happened, fell back into the silence of sleep. I don't remember it. I don't remember any of it. But I meant it. I meant it with my whole heart.

2 for £1

"Donuts"
A display in the middle of the aisle, three or four stories high. A yellow sign: 2 for £1.
"T'en veux?"
His eyes light up a little.
"Oui j'en veux bien"
"Jam or custard"?
"Jaa-am? Custard?"
"Confiture ou... creme anglaise."
"Vous foutez de la creme anglaise dans les donuts ici?"
"Bahhh, non, c'est du custard, c'est bien un peu different. Custard. On test?"
"Ok. One jam one costaaard alors."
"Bon."

We put them in our basket.
On the walk home, in the darkening cold, we bit into jam doughnuts and grinned, jam running out onto bitter fingers.

In the living room, fingers laced around warm mugs of tea, we each had a custard one. My smile that of nostalgia, expectancy; his of discovery, pleasant surprise. These smiles we know so well, having seen them so often on the face of the other.

dans ta chepo

They say a problem shared is a problem halved. And I will be the first to admit that 

two cold hands in a coat pocket 

don't stay cold for long.

Lovely Mistakes

I like it when things are a little lost in translation. Not always. Not entirely. But just sometimes. And just a  little bit. So that the translation makes sense, but sounds a little strange. And words are given a whole new edge, a new feel, a retouch, because of their new context, their new intended meaning. The unusualness, the sore-thumb quality of the word, makes it endearing. Makes it special. Makes it unique to the speaker. It punctuates their idiolect like a flaw in a knit jumper, rendering it one-of-a-kind. And I love it most of all when it comes from your lips. The way the images your words create are quite distorted from the ones in your mind, the ones you intended. But they are none the less beautiful. Unique. Your mistakes that only you can make. Your lovely mistakes.

Fancy

Suit and dress,

dress and suit.

Well suited.

Well dressed.

Cheri, il a neigé

We knew it from the way the light came in. Cold and white like milk. We knew it from the way the only sound we could hear was birdsong, solemn and far away. It is something you feel in your bones. 

The first snow.

Whitley and Tynemouth

The sun was cold and setting when we got to the beach.
The wind, and your beard made my cheeks both sting.
So we fled to the chippy, had a battered haddock each.

Cold Blood

My blood ran cold.

Something characters say in stories. You'd be long dead before your blood ever reached a temperature that could be described as 'cold'. 

But then my blood ran cold. 

It is the only way I can describe how I felt. I felt as though I was sinking in an icy black lake, and that the water was somehow coursing through my veins, my inner ears, my guts, my stomach. Cold, cold, cold. Dark.

This is how I felt when you told me that you swerve your car to hit cats on purpose, because you find it funny. Because you hate them.

You'd never actually killed one. Which to you made it perfectly fine. You expected me to laugh, I think.

But some small part of my soul died. Spiritual road kill. 

And my blood ran cold.