The Poetry Kit





How-to Books





Who's Who





Music On Computers




And the good old boys coming back

from the Old Inn, the village quiet, the

back road a whisper, the piling into

the cottage a squabble of the ending joke

and the new quiet. Computer on for the

retained music, Bob Dylan chosen as homage

to this guest, busy with wine corks, plastic

and real, dry cider bottles fizzing with a

fresh-bubble fizz and Joanne, waiting by

the sink with a smile and a confidence,

knowing the juice is in the fridge door,

 the spirits on the floor of the bedroom,

by the uplighter. We pecked a kiss, another.


And the flavour was Just Like A Woman and

John and Jeremy were holding court in the hall

that formed the dining room and sometimes spread

the lounge, depending on warm or cold weather.

And there’s me, holding the smoke, grinning on the

terracotta throw of their cheap settee, pillows as

cushions and comfy. And Jane sinks in too. Terribly

friendly, adult, with her old dad my friend a next

drink away. So she kisses and I falter, she makes a

presence and I tell her diabetes affects in many ways.

Her hand presses and tells me I seem unaffected.


So we’re on the settee, I’ve joined a few conversations

and the agarbati is smelling wonderful. Joanne has pecked

me in the kitchen and holding court with Lizard ladies,

full of country and fishing and sex. And sex with gossip.

She puts my hand on her tits. I feel nothing, so show

her by finding and fighting my way through tight sewing

and design squashed. No room. What’s more is the singing

to ‘Hey’ Mr Tambourine Man, with a big call on the ‘hey’ bit.

The room is alive behind me and it’s Dylan calling the chorus.

Personally, I went for ‘tambourine.’ Emphasis was big with me.

I was definitely a ‘tambourine’ man.

Back Next