Ne me dis pas que je t’aurais aimé.
Ne me dis pas que j’aurais pu te retrouver.
Jure qu’entre nous ça n’aurait jamais pu se transformer
En un amour qui durerait plus que le temps d’une pensée d’été.
Cache à moi les maux que je t’aurais infligés.
Fais comme si mes attentions manquantes jamais ne te manqueraient.
Invente un monde où l’invention servirait
À séparer un rêve enfantin d’une réalité de banalités.
Recommence à vivre à toute allure
Une vie d’espoir dépourvue des engelures
Qu’apporte seul un baiser froid de brûlante nature
Qui ne se différencie guère d’une vive morsure.
Avant qu’on ne se connaisse dans toutes nos faiblesses,
Au lieu de commencer mieux vaut qu’on cesse.
Sans même croiser nos regards au-dessus de notre défunte jeunesse
Permets que nos mains se touchent, se saisissent, se laissent.
Once, when I was around 13 or 14, I came across something wondrous and magical. And, as tends to be the case for most of us, but perhaps particularly for a blasé young teenager, I almost, but not quite, failed to recognise its significance.
I was idly playing with an elastic band on the fingers of my hand, performing a cat’s cradle. I was close to my grandmother growing up and so had a raft of skills beloved of the average Georgian schoolgirl. As the band snapped off my fingers I noticed something rather odd. It had formed a simple knot – the simplest form of knot that you might tie in any piece of string – along one side of the band. Continue reading
So long, my love. The world can’t wait to meet you.
Love tires, enough, and they all so want to complete you.
I knew you then when all was well in our ken.
And I see now how it was time not our love that was broken.
Take care, of you. As I did when you were sleeping.
Please just slip through. My grip is weak when I’m weeping.
In a state of alarm I did harm keeping you safe in my arms.
You should have flown alone and painted the sky with your charms.
Now go, my dear. I have no right to hold you.
Be strong, don’t fear, it’s all just as I’ve told you.
You thought me kind, mind, all I said was to blind.
Now please fly free, see, I am there close behind.
Jack spied some land overgrown and squalid
On a road of rich houses high and solid.
‘Twas the garden of a cottage squat and horrid.
The house that Jack built.
To the elderly owner he did proffer
A few measly pounds to take the land off her.
Else someone would trip and sue, and try to rip off her.
The house that Jack built.
A little memorial to the little soul who was Yasmin.
The sweetest-tempered cat I have ever known.
29 November 2001 to 14 July 2015
Graham – Would you like one?
Me (tired, hot, and distracted) – Go on then, you’ve brought it now.
Graham – I think you’ll find you mean “bought”.
Me – Pfffffft…
I have taught him too well!!
Is flattery the result of irony?
I’m here all week, folks.
Tried to find the name of a tune that’s driving me mad by humming at Soundhound song recognition app. One suggestion was “No idea” by a Japanese singer and another was “Speak my language” by the Cure.
I think it’s being sarcastic.
I just settled down to watch the film “Déjà vu” on BBC1 tonight, but then realised I’ve already seen it.