Drained

After doing the drains I made another mess. This time with the Royal Mail's 'last dates for posting'.
But after storming around the kitchen in a fearful temper I soon got relaxed by watching some snooker. The horrible hairy Ronnie O'Sullivan is playing the horrible hairless Peter Ebdon. Still I watched it. And very good it was too, in fact they're still crashing balls about the baize but I need a break, just a little one so here I am with a nice cup of tea.

Before I forget, many thanks to Nof for reminding me that Carol Ann Duffy was on The South Bank Show. Ooodles of thankfulness Mike.
I sat entranced by the majesty of the Poet Laureate and wanted to scratch the eyes out of all who came near her. But I suppose, like many things in life, me meeting Miss Duffy ain't never gonna be. We're not all intended for greatness and even though we may feel that we're good enough to be up there, the starbright heavens can only hold but a few, therefore I am quite resigned to living in the shadows.

And now it's dark already so I'd better get back to the snooker and making dinner.
But at least the drains are clear.

Poet Laureat

Looks like another gloriass day weather wise!
And it looks set to last to at least Sunday, so I'm off out tonight vestless. Talking of foolhardyness I've put in the garden a scratched stained 1973 coffee table laden with peanuts, in the hope that my pigeons and other feathered babes will feast upon it and in so doing make me very happy. How selfish is that? But so far they've chosen to ignore it. But, as I've noticed before, it takes birds a while to get used to new thingymejigs in their territory, so being blessed with endless patience I'll have to wait...

Talking of patience...
I've waited a good while for good news on the poetry front. And yesterday I had some. My favourite poet Carol Ann Duffy has been made Poet Laureat. This weepingly talented woman should have had the job years ago, but according to rumours, she was denied it on account of her sexual persuasion.
I watched her being interviewed yesterday and I wished I could have had a few private moments with her. I'd have asked her how she feels when the birth pangs of a poem pound in her head and heart. And how it feels when she sees her completed work, her offspring, spread out, not on a bloodied blanket but on a dusty screen.

What I wouldn't give to meet her.

Anyway here's one of her poems, I carry it in my handbag.
To me it is a masterpiece.


"Some days although we cannot pray a prayer utters itself, so a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.
Some nights although we are faithless the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain, then a man will stand stock still hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Pray for us.
Grade one piano scales console the lodger looking out across a Midlands town. Then dusk and someone calls a child's name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside, inside the radios prayer. Rockall, Malin, Dogger, Finistere."

Carol Ann Duffy



So back to my stuff.

Snooker.
Bacon.
Snooker.

Rogan Josh.
Coffee and mint chocs
Late night Snooker.

Check bird's coffee table.