The Virus

‘‘Tis winter time, I’m wearing jeans

Can’t be arsed to shave my legs

But with the advent of the virus

I’m forced, or so it seems,

To have a modicum of girliness

To show him I’m quite clean

As we’re stuck together all day long

And his eyes have got that gleam.

If I stopped the hirsute bodiness

He’d stroke me all day long

But my razors just gone blunt

So he’ll have a bloody moan.

What’s the point of plucking eyebrows

And filing down the nails

We might all be dead tomorrow

Be eaten by the snails

But the stroking and the kissing

Makes me feel just so alive

So I’ll pander to my body

And grin and shave and smile

A Perfect Day.

26 years ago I took my 6 week old baby to Hastings as I was pining for the sea. Having been brought up on the Devonshire coastline and then living in inland Kent I missed the noises and smell of the old briny.

He was hungry and I was laden so we sat in the back of my car so I could feed him with the breast.

About 3 fourteen year old boys, clearly bored with life, were hovering about the car park. They thought they looked cool and were probably up to no good. One of their team looked into my car and started shuffling his feet. He nudged his mates and they all looked at their feet having observed a sucking child.

They went on their way with smiling faces nudges one another.

A perfect day.


I was four and half when I rushed into Granny and Grampy’s to show off my first school shoes by putting them on the kitchen table. Granny screamed and knocked them to the floor saying in a voice of doom “There’ll be a death in the family”. Sure enough, there was sixty years later.


Her hair had caught in her mouth so she tossed her head back. “Red Campion!” She exclaimed as she walked through the woods. “That’s my favourite flower come spring”. She was, as usual, walking with just her dog but saw no reason not to voice her joy out loud.

Dog sniffed and snuffled amongst the undergrowth whilst she carefully looked for mushrooms at the base of an old oak tree.

Suddenly she was was grasped by the throat and slowly sank to the ground. Her dog galloped about thinking it a game. The man tightened his squeeze, never uttering a sound and she died. He caught the dog, put on its leash and went home satisfied.

Who needs pictures

When I go to a beautiful place I share it with my love

When I see a beautiful morning I share it with the bees

When I see an old lady, lonely on her trail, I just smile, pick up her shopping

And listen to her life.

I don’t need to take pictures.


I don’t subscribe to technology

I don’t have a mobile phone

I do have a listening ear

However to harken my neighbours moan

I much prefer bees droning

Then people on their line

Just stop and look at the daisy

The world is just sublime

I’ve suffered a silent carriage

On a train out of Paddington

And heard the low buzzing

From earphones not quite plugged in and quite absurd

Being British I’ve just turned my pages

Of an old fashioned murder and sex

Given glances to fellow travellers

To put stop to their whispers and texts

I’m from the time of Agatha Christie

The days when things were quite still

If you don’t put down your technology now

Then with this gun I shall have to kill


An impromptu bout of sex

Next to the last revolution of the washing machine

After the final kiss

It’s a hunt round the house for our slippers

Let’s settle down in front of the tv now

Nestled in our respective dressing gowns

A smile on our faces

Sheer love and bliss

My ego needs stroking.

My ego needs stroking

I know, I think I’ll tweet

About my deepest feelings, what’s going down.

That’s what the public think

Of their own cares and discoveries,

No doubt they’ll think I’ll care.

Must switch off the button now

I don’t, after all, wish to share.