The rain has begun.
I park the car close as possible, then dodging the drops, duck into the library.
“Ahh,” says the librarian, “we’ve been wading through your requests and look what’s washed up.”
It is like Santa handing over a present.
“Ahh, ‘Waterlog’”, I say.”The perfect book to read in the bath,”
“Just don’t drop it,” he says.
I should have seen that coming but Steve is quick, very quick.
“Thanks,” I say and we have a brief chat on the merits of reading in strange places, like baths.
“Have to go”, I say. “The rain’s getting heavier.”
By the time I get to the car, the book and I are waterlogged.
Steve would have appreciated that pun.
Now I don’t have to worry about dropping it in the bath.
* what’s the strangest place you’ve read a book?
Admittedly it ranks a little lower
than the mystery of the Marie Celeste.
missing Malaysia Flight A 370
or the disappearance of the Beaumont children
at our local beach on Australia Day
half a century ago
But I still want to know
to my snazzy blue, gold trimmed vest
I got for Xmas and took off for a shave
on Boxing Day
I only took it off for a minute
so I wouldn’t get it grubby.
Where did it go?
I want to cram everything in
into the suitcase of life.
No wonder it’s so heavy
What is the cat looking for under the gate?
Perhaps the old tom two doors down trudging across the road like a sloppy sentence.
Perhaps the purr that left her mysteriously six months ago.
Or maybe she’s dreaming of the Krazy Kat cartoons she loved read to her as a kitten.
Or what the rest of her siblings are up to at the Pet Barn and whether they landed on her feet like her when she was adopted.
Or maybe she’s just curious. She’s a cat after all.
My mind is a scold.
It calls me sloth,
a lassitudinous layabout.
Is that even a word, I say?
Get off the couch, it says. It’s early afternoon
Attend to your blog.
Your Yorkshire mate puts up three posts
to your one.
Write that poem about airing the sheets.
How they purr like cats as they are stroked
by the sun.
Re-read that article :
‘Should Leopards Be Paid For Their Spots’.
Phone your daughters.
Go see your sister.
Give people their worth.
Go to gym.
Release your inner Thor.
Okay, okay, I grumble
but, in truth, I’m happier
and have loads more energy
when I’m buzzing around
like a gingery bee.
How does that work?
Election day at Alberton Primary.
A long, long queue.
A slow shuffle to the front.
Hope the queue at the Pearly Gates
isn’t as long and tedious as this.
And there’s a coffee van and sausage sizzle
at the end of it
We were at St, Francis Winery
& were trying to find
our way home
when you said,
Hey! Isn’t St. Francis the Patron Saint of Travellers
& I said, yes,
I think he is
so we got praying to St. Francis
but were getting
more and more lost.
Hey! let me check something, I said
so I pulled out my iPhone & Googled
‘Patron Saint of Travellers’
it was St. Christopher.
No wonder we were lost.
We were praying to the wrong guy.
So this time we prayed to the right guy
& cheered up.
The car cheered up too.
It had a bounce in its wheels.
We were on our way.
Any minute now …..
in my back pocket.
My one concession to pink.
Still, I was amazed
in an article on Harris Reed,
the 25 year old designer,
that in the 18th century, pink
was stylish for men and women
as was lace,
a marker not of effeminacy
but of affluence & taste.
Although I am not rabidly masculine,
I like manly cuts and colours
Still I;m fond of my pink comb.
O, and I like Kylie too.
I have always wanted to work in a pencil factory
like Henry David Thoreau.
I could draw inspiration from my work each day,
pencil in appointments with imaginary friends
during coffee breaks or smokos.
Do they still have smokos by the way?
‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ but what about
the pencil? & which one?
2B or not 2B? Hamlet famously dithered just after
he had asked Ophelia [ in an earlier draft of the play ]
to come and look at his etchings and she had refused.
I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box but I still
want to make my mark upon the world.