No Sympathy for the Devil

Look, I say taking him aside. I don’t like my character swearing. Can you tone it down a bit?

Tone it down? I’m the ^%$##@ devil, for Christ’s sake. It’s my prerogative.

Not on my watch, it isn’t. Hey, is that a glass of water you just threw over me?

Someone’s getting a bit heated. Someone needs to cool down.

Looks like we’re being asked to leave, I say. I haven’t finished yet.

( we exit, letting him go first]

You’re very red in the face, I say.

I’m the 8&^^*devil, he says.What do you expect me to be? Pasty-faced as you?

Okay, okay, I say. Couldn’t you stay on script?

Ever heard of ad libbing? he says. Adding a bit of swagger?

Stick to the script, I say as a pretty woman passes by. I turn to look.

Hey, did you just push me to the ground?

It’s better than me knocking your block off. Now where were we?


Not cinched




but big



bursting with life


with rotundity


of poems

life spilling out

of them

like clothes from a suitcase

clowns out

of a jalopy

Do I Have to Call the Police?

I’m on the phone to my insurance company about a torn car seat,

We don’t cover wear and tear, Sasha explains. Unless there is a third party involved.

There is! I say. My comb.

There’s an embarrassing silence.

Your comb? Your comb is the third party? I don’t think combs can be considered culpable.

Hear me out, I say. It was in my back pocket, the place where I sit down and a few of the teeth — I hate to use a melodramatic term here — a few of the teeth clawed the stitching.

I need to speak to my supervisor, she says.

Music plays in the background.

Sash comes back.

You’ll need to get a report, she explains.

No problem.

And you’ll need to pay the excess.

How much is that?

450, she says.

I almost hit the roof. But the repair only costs 340, I say. It costs me more to go through insurance than if I paid it myself. Bloody comb!

Now, now … Sash says.

I’m going to thrash that comb to within an inch of its life, I roar, channeling Fawlty when he flays his car with a leafy tree branch.

Oh dear. we don’t need to call the police, do we? Sash chuckles.

I won’t use a closed fist, I promise.

Well, that’s alright then, she says.

And we both double up with laughter.

Does Anyone Know Where the %$^# They Are?

I was in McLaren Vale, the heart of the wine growing region, trying to find a well-known winery called Fox Creek.

I didn’t have a GPS in the car but I checked on Google Maps before I left so I had a pretty good idea. Pretty good, as anyone can tell you, is not good enough.

I knew it came off Almond Grove Road. Locals would know where that was.

I asked some passers by. Some said it was a little north, another somewhat east, a third said ‘straight ahead’, the honest ones shrugged their shoulders. Dunno, they said. I stopped and asked a guy in the coffee shop. He was adamant it was the next road to the left. It wasn’t.

Honestly, does anyone know where the ^%$&* they are???

* do you know where you are?

ps: I wrote this while I was exasperated

On the Face of it

Someone once told me that I stir my coffee backwards

As though it were a character flaw.

Until it was for bidden by my cardiologist

I used to stand on my head

Believing it gave me a head start to the day.

I like to eat my cereal at night.

It gives my stomach something to mull over

While I sleep.

My doctor tells me I might have ADHD

But I can’t sit still long enough to be tested.

On the face of it I look normal.

Okay. Well, that didn’t work


I have a very bad feeling.

Tell me I’m wrong.

That I have written myself into obscurity.

That I was too clever by half.

That no one knew what the f*** I was writing about

in the previous post ‘Not a nightingale ode’.

It was a glass of red wine.

But that’s what happens when you put up a post

while you’ve been drinking

while you’ve been rhapsodizing about a glass

of red wine

Improbable Ponderings


Does an apple have core values?

Are pistachios ‘nut cases’?

What happens if the door of opportunity jams?

If Q and U really are the conjoined twins of the English alphabet, isn’t it about time they were separated?

Do Grandfather Clocks have too much time on their hands?

Who keeps putting the writing on the wall?

And is anyone ever going to get around to fixing those disabled toilets?


Can you add to this fun list? can you suggest answers to any of these questions?