(Creative Corner #3) It Must Be Bad....

When you read your horoscope in the Sun and it says "you will find something valuable in a blue folder" so you come home and look through your flat for a blue folder. I found one, it contains old job applications. Hmmm what possible value can I get from these? Perhaps it means I should look for a new job. Perhaps, though, it means I ought to avoid reading the bastard Sun!!

Happy to announce that my work speech went okay. Finished it this morning in a panic. Was very disappointed that the ten speeches that came before it were accompanied by flash power point presentations, and pretty pictures. Made my crumpled peice of A4, with scribbled writing all over it, seem quite amateur. But raised a couple of laughs, which I guess is important, and the nerdy-nice Northern guy, who I shall christen Wally for the purposes of this blog, even complimented it, and also the Prof, who is either very South-American (and thus free and easy with personal space) or just an old pervert.

Spent rest of the afternoon lying on Hampstead Heath in the name of staff bonding, playing cricket, supping up the free beer, and waiting till darkness fell. The Heath (if you're not a nervous straight man wearing a tight pair of jeans, resting yourself in some bushes) is a beautiful place at dusk, quite un-London, vast and airy, where you can quite happily lie looking up at the sky (Gregory's Girl) and imagine you're on the surface of the earth, as it whirls through space. Ahh being tipsy, it may not be good for the liver, but it makes the mind a simpler and more appeciative beast, that's for sure.

Anyway, I will end this ramble with a new poem, dedicated to the joys of not quite getting it on, whicb quite frankly is rather appropriate given my current situation!

Wishing Not Doing

Not doing what we're thinking of doing
May be the most fun we'll ever have,
So let's stand inches apart, in some whisky bar,
Slouch in the fumy darkness, stare unseen
And let the feeling start, but never loose it from the moorings.

Let's be awkward, let's jar, as we brush past,
Exchange a knowing flutter, but not let it
Grow Steady. Feel the sensation pass, and curse
The things we're not saying, be as hopeless
And as sweet as confetti, or a Mayfly's last dance.

Let's lie in the park, side-by-side, and bask
Observing an innocent distance, see our shadows
Stretching and swooning as the sun wanes.
Let's lie on the cut grass with our stomachs knotted,
Not acting on high notions, but praying they will last.

Let's kick off our shoes, and tiptoe through the streets,
Blackening our soles, dodging broken glass,
Hollering like Red Indians invading Belfast, out-of-breath
With fear, for the moon is following us, and because
We draw near, but remain an Irish-sea apart.

Let's go home, you curled up on the wooden floor
Dozing and waking, lulled by the sound of each other breathing.
Not speaking or kissing, but dreaming
Of the things we're missing, and the fun we're having
Not doing the things we wish we were doing.