Sunday, July 8, 2012


I’d lost my job, my husband had left me and I’d been feeling quite low. So, I hadn’t kept on top of things. The house was a mess and, outside, the hedge had taken over. Its highest branches now tickled the sky. But I just didn’t have the energy, or the desire, to sort things out.

So when Mrs. Simpkins from number 18 came round with a cross face and a raised voice about my lowering the tone of a good neighbourhood, a palpable flash of anger boiled my blood.

It started with just one letter. It was only supposed to be a prank; I had no idea that she would take it so seriously. I’d sat, that night, meticulously cutting out individual letters from magazines. In the morning, still feeling irked by her botheration, I posted it through her door.

When the fuss died down, I forced myself to tend to the unruly hedge. I was out in the front garden with the shears when Dorothy, from number 26, strolled by. She told me it’s such a shame, I used to be such a pretty girl, and comfort eating wasn’t the answer.

Once again, I saw red, out came the scissors, snip, snip. She received her letter the following day. I ate three cream cakes and wept.

The next Sunday, I went for a walk to try and shift a pound or three, when I ran into Mrs. Anderson from number 14. She turned up her nose and commented that it’s no wonder the economy was in such a mess when certain people refused to do an honest day’s work and sat on their backsides all day.

I stormed back home, slammed the gate shut and wasted not a second before starting her special letter.

Later, I walked to the shop for a newspaper to peruse the job listings when Mr. Crooks shook his head in disgust at the rotten core of society. That within a friendly, upstanding area, there could be a raving lunatic sending nasty letters to folk.

I really tried not to this time but I couldn’t sleep that night and the concentration and hypnotic sound of the blades on the glossy paper helped me relax, so Mr. Crooks got one too.

I worried about my behaviour and made an appointment with the GP. The receptionist was Sandra’s daughter from number 36. She said it was good I had finally come; it was about time I got rid of that ugly mole on my chin.

I was speechless at that, my hand instinctively rubbed it. I used that as my reason for being there and said nothing about my recent actions. I sent a letter to Sandra’s house.

People were really talking now and I started to feel afraid about leaving the house. Paranoia followed me around, day and night. But nobody will ever know it was me. I sent one to myself, this very afternoon.

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Three seat sofa.

Three seat sofa for sale,
In much loved condition,
Arse and elbow grooves,
Comes with a romantic history.
Three seat sofa for sale,
Has held cuddles,
And tickle fights
And sleepy bodies before bed.
Three seat sofa for sale,
The end seat in immaculate condition,
Only two seats used,
By lovers intertwined.
Three seat sofa for sale,
Has seen tears,
And joys
And the making of love.
Three seat sofa for sale,
It’s where he told me
That his love had gone,
He’d given it away to another.
Three seat sofa for sale,
It’s where I wept for five days and nights,
Unable to believe and accept
That it was all over.
Three seat sofa for sale,
The cushions are free.
Please take it away
And give me some peace.
Three seat sofa for sale.
You can have it for a fiver.
I really don’t mind,
I can’t sit there now.
Three seat sofa for sale.
Three seat sofa for free.
Take the three seat sofa and I’ll pay you.
Three seat sofa.  

Monday, July 2, 2012

The Photograph

Remembering youth,
Eternally captured in the photograph
The romantic summer picnic
Framed in sepia tones.
Their smiling fresh faces
Squinting from the sun.
A recollection stirs her mind,
The succulent strawberries,
Sweet red juice trickling down her chin
For him to carefully kiss away.
The sharp white wine
Upon his breath and hot tongue
Ending on her lips
Leaving her drunk only with desire.
The buzzing bees and birdsong
The only sounds that day.
Finding love and heart shaped clouds
Floating overhead.
When she touched him there.
When he touched her there.
Leaving the field as a woman,
No trace of the girl she had been.