I wasn’t going to wear it. ‘A hoodie is not a cardigan’, I said.

‘Anything that does up at the front is a cardigan’, he insisted.

‘A flack jacket does up at the front; is that a cardigan?’ I said.

We were off and running like the cabbie who couldn’t get us

to the venue fast enough. And then he started on my silver hammer,

why I used the word ‘silver’ when the important word was ‘hammer’.

I could have hit him over the head. And then he said I was embellishing

the tale. ‘I’m a writer’ I pronounced from the saddle of my high horse.

‘It’s the writer’s prerogative to embellish,’

‘You call yourself a writer,’ he said. ‘Your poetry doesn’t even rhyme.’

Now I admit calling him a ‘Neanderthal’ didn’t help matters.

But it’s not just writers who are prickly.

21 thoughts on “Prickly

  1. I like this poem, John. It moves in an odd prickly way jumping from irritation to irritation. And, as Eden said, a lot of good lines. I guess prickly is one of those words that has negative connotations but is actually a perfectly natural reaction to *cough* needling. Is needling not a prickly activity in itself. An eye for an eye, a prickle for a prickle. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Lol 🙂 yes, I tend to get on my high horse with my mate after a few drinks: we needle each other; we’ve only had one real ‘blue’ and that was over ten years back 🙂 maybe a bit of needling keeps relationships intact 🙂


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