Blue

Bluest of blue moods, Johnny Winter ‘Going down slow’ on the Ipod; heat of the gas fire burning my legs. I don’t want to move away, the rest of the room is so cold. It’s so cold that ‘el gatto malodoro’ is curled up on my lap and purring. Normally she’d never come near me unless I had a tin opener in my hand, so this means it’s really parky in here. Telly said winds from the Eastern Steppes, all week. Too right, it’s like bloody Siberia in our passage way. I don’t know what it will be like when they turn off the gas. ‘Lectric went off last Monday, so no more TV, buggeration I’ll miss ‘Pop Idol’ final, I don’t mind so much about having no lights. Nothing to see anyway.

Last of my Giro went on Kit-e-Kat at Tesco’s, so at least my little darling can eat for a day or two. I think I might be sharing a bowl with her if things don’t perk up soon. It looks quite appetising usually, all of those meaty chunks in jelly. Yum! Hey, they ate worse things in the war you know, whalemeat again, cardboard eggs and all sorts. If things get really, really, bad, well there’s an awful lot of meat on a big fat moggy. Feel those haunches, some fine eating on one of those. Ooops, now she's buggered off in disgust. Only joking darling!

Anyway, she’ll be back. Unless she’s learnt to use the tin opener herself.


End

(Dedicated to my moggy loving mate Gaynor)

RED

RED RUM? That Steven King writes some bollocks, rum’s not red it’s dark brown to blackish, unless it’s Bacardi in which case it’s clear, unless you put Coke in it, in which case it’s nearly black again, I suppose you could put tomato juice in Bacardi (aaaaakkkk), but why oh why would anyone want to? It would be shite. I’ve seen Caribbean rum that’s pale golden and I suppose that you could put like grenadine or that Campari crap in it, but that would be orangey pinky wouldn’t it not red for god’s sake. Red vodka, yes, Bloody Mary, now that would make sense. Oi, King, get your bloody cocktails right, wanker. Still that’s writers for you, even if you collared him in the street and brought him up with the facts of the lack of redness in rum, he would probably use weasel writer words and say that it’s ‘poetic license’. My arse, it’s just bloody wrong, that’s what it is. But they all do it don’t they? Who was that bloke who wrote the movie ‘Black Narcissus’ eh? I’ve seen narcissus, or was it nasturtiums, anyway they ain’t effin’ black, so there. He’d probably claim it was a literary device, I know where I’d shove his device. Don’t get me started on movies, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, yeah only after you’re dead it is – it’s bleedin’ crap while your living it innit.

Zuzu’s petals? You can stick ‘em. Probably weren’t even real petals.

End

(Dedicated to Haiku Dave - for introducing me to the artform)

Castlerigg

Stones of power stand

symbols of man's weak need to

harness nature's force

Not really standing stones anymore, just upright lumps. Troll's teeth in Granddad’s mouth worn down to stumps. We stand with old Saddleback behind us ankle deep in mud, and feel the vibrations of ancient worship pounding in the blood at our temples. Centuries of power focused on this spot flow through us as we join hands to commune with ancestors, long forgotten, who’s feet have trodden this windy field.

Wind whipped grasses lash at our legs; horizontal rain stings our faces as we lean forward to stay upright in the gale, rivulets run icily down our necks. Miles off across the valley an unrepentant sunbeam breaks through a tiny gap in angry black clouds and spotlights a church steeple.

We start to circle, faster and faster. Circle around until we’re dizzy. Round and round goes the most beauteous landscape in all of Christendom, from looming Low Rigg to dismal drenched Dodd and back again. Until, eventually, we fall down in the mire laughing and break the spell; lose the link to prehistory, and return to present day with soggy drawers and a long wet walk home.

End