Monthly Archives: February 2019

A Day Off

A Day Off

Have a day off.

Don’t write anything.

Don’t seek inspiration in everything.

Put your pen and paper (or the like) to one side.

Let your mind have a rest.

Think of nothing.

Fold into yourself like an air bed with a slowish puncture.

Dissolve.

Evaporate.

Cease to exist.

Shakespeare’s The ‘Seven Ages Of Man’ speech

Shakespeare’s The ‘Seven Ages Of Man’ speech

As You Like it A2SC7

Jaques:

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Wild Garlic

Wild Garlic

The smell of wild garlic crosses the gap from there to here and assaults my nostrils. Not that I mind, I love the fragrant odour. Cooked or… uncooked, as in this case, and it’s that time of the year when I shall be sensing wild garlic every day.

Nothing of Substance Here.

Nothing of Substance Here.

There was a hint of mint

in my a la fresco lint –

though why I’d never noticed this before

was a thing of which I am unsure –

and so I thought for a while,

and began to smile…

if you squint at the sun,

not looking at it directly

but, off to one side,

as a monk might have done;

then a tint or two of colour

might come to you

as being of worth to the mind.

Or you might find nothing of the sort;

but, if that is the case,

assistance should be sought.

“Thanks, Chuck!”

“Thanks, Chuck!”

We thank you for the air we breathe;

we thank you for the water that we drink;

all the food that we receive;

and for having the mind with which to think.

We thank you for the story

of a man disdaining glory,

who died for our sins;

that’s where a story begins.

Tom Jones? Henry Fielding? George Orwell? Me?

Tom Jones? Henry Fielding? George Orwell? Me?

“Please release me…

from this dystopian hell!”

I had had the misfortune to stay in a number of large hotels – what ‘misfortune’ is that?, you ask – well…

… every time that they allocated me a room, I was given room number one-hundred and one. Spookily, every time. And. Being knowledgeable about George Orwell’s 1984 and all that went on within the novel, I was a little freaked out that it kept on happening.

So, I decided to stay in a smaller hotel the next time so that they wouldn’t have a hundred and one rooms. That should sort it.

I turned up at the Binary Hotel and, upon checking in, I was given the keys to the fifth of their five rooms.

“Low-Flying Geese!”

“Low-Flying Geese!”

“Beware Low-Flying Geese!”

the sign read;

and then there was the small print;

“Or you’ll have the Low-Flying Geese Police to deal with!”

This sounded like a warning, and a threat; and I don’t appreciate warnings, or threats.

That was when it hit me.