Girl in Need of a Slap

That would be me. MG took me out again last night, and introduced yet another unexpected facet of loveliness. So, I end up this morning sat at a far off tube station, at 5.45am, looking a little dishevelled, eating a veggie scotch egg for breakfast (yum), and caught somewhere between smugness and panic. I may be in trouble, of a big moon-shaped variety. And I don't mean of the "papa don't preach" variety. Must try to stay positive. But must not care too much. MUST TRY.

Choc Chip has kindly offered to do the slapping honours, should I start to display the signs of pathetic punch-drunk mooniness. I therefore must prepare myself for a big hand shaped mark on my face in the near future! In honour of my life as a dumb inevitable creature, a (newish) poem:

This Familiar

The lambs run from the train and yet,
It cuts this way, through the glen,
Eight times a day. Oh this familiar feeling,
This too familiar thing: as known as the Rogart rain
Or the Finnstown wind. Like an empty resevoir,
My heart; like a morning moor, your skin, I will feel
The trickle, the sweet agony of blood
Returning to a rested limb and,
As sure as the lambs run from the train,
Will my heart fill again.