Waterlog

Waterlog.

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?

Gone

Gone

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

what happened

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?

Cram

The thing is

I want to cram everything in

everything

into the suitcase of life.

No wonder it’s so heavy

Interloper

 
I was doing yoga
 
when
 
I heard it fall;
 
that cranky cat, I thought
 
but when I got up
 
to look
 
it was the photo of poor late Milly,
 
our beloved Burmese,
 
she had knocked off
 
the cabinet;
 
I know what she was thinking,
 
that interloper,
 
her photo all over the house
 
but not one
 
of me,
 
the new kid on the block.
  

Under the Gate

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.

How Does That Work?

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?

The Big Day

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

The Wrong Saint

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’

& found

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 …..

The Pink Comb

I have a pink comb

in my back pocket.

My one concession to pink.

Still, I was amazed

to read

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.

Tastes change.

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.

My Life as a Pencil

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.