Facial Tear

I failed to catch
The spinning bottle
Of sun-tan oil properly
And now have
A tiny red moustache

This will produce
A small scar
Not unlike Harry Potter’s
After his confrontation with
Voldemort

Three Star Luxury

It’s half term in the UK and so no school visits. A whole week of writing. (Hurrah!) The good news is I’ve finally worked out how to revise “The Story” (see earlier blogs) to make it (hopefully) work.
I was at a school in Wakefield, Yorkshire on Friday. I stayed in a very interesting hotel. The lift was covered in pine tongue and groove, fitted by some drunk TV presenters on a makeover show I think. The neon light was jammed in place with a strip of wood. And the little metal plate that tells you the floor you’re on had been stuck directly on to the wood over the door. It wasn’t connected to anything.
There was also no remote control for the TV. But the TV didn’t have the programmes that the brochure claimed anyway, so that was okay. No Sky Sports channels. I asked the guy at reception for a new remote and he said, Well, some of the rooms don’t have them because people take them. That’s okay then.
The soap dispenser came off in my hand. How I chuckled. Maybe I’d strayed into a cartoon hotel.
It was so shabby and dowdy. I didn’t eat in the dark and gloomy restaurant. I found a very nice Italian restaurant instead. But I did eat my breakfast there.
After breakfast I was waiting for the lift to come – I’d only been waiting about five minutes – when I fell into conversation with a couple. He said, I think we’re in the hotel California. I said I hope not. I want to leave.

Reflection

I caught my reflection
On the Northern Line
My face in the glass
The rushing tunnel behind me
And I looked sad

Before
I’ve always looked thoughtful
Serene, even.

Later
As I write this
In the British Library café
I force a smile
In case anyone is watching me
In case I am being written
Into a writer’s notebook
To become a minor character
In a fiction.
Not the sad guy on the underground
But the man with the foolish grin
Glancing suspiciously around.

This Book Begins

This book begins
With a mad rush for the train.
The alarm wakes me.
I wash, shower, dress
Black trousers, orange shirt, yellow socks.
Smooth operation.
I’m early.
I have time to spare.
I sip my coffee.
Check the map.
But time concertinas.
Maybe time saxophones.
Either way I’m in a hurry now.
Time metronomes.
I’m leaving the house.
Blast!
My glasses!
They are in my dressing gown pocket
On the back of the bedroom door.
I run up the stairs.
I’m moving fast.
Time is a foxtrot.
There’s a heavy frost.
I start the car.
The windscreen is an iced cake.
The de-icer’s in Jill’s car.
The key’s on my key ring
In the ignition.
I turn off the engine.
Find the de-icer.
De-ice the windows.
Now the car won’t start.
I have to de-activate the thief lock.
I manoeuvre through the gate.
Stop.
Close the gate.
I wait for the de-icer to kick in.
Time is a mazurka.
Time is a polka.
Luckily there’s no traffic at six in the morning.
Luckily the station car park ticket machine works this time.
Luckily there’s no queue at the ticket office.
The level crossing’s down.
I can hear the train coming.
I run over the bridge.
Catch the train
On the last note of the final coda.
Organise myself,
My hat, coat, case, book
And notebook.
I’m starting a new notebook today.
The phrase, This book begins
With a mad rush for the train
Comes into my head.

Hogwash

I’m sorry, son,
For all I said
Harry Potter’s brilliant
I love the way
He’s always one step ahead

Hermione
Is sharp, clever
There’s no doubt whatsoever
That, by now, without her
Harry would be dead

And the other one, Harry’s friend
The perfect foil, loyal to the end
The butter on Harry’s bread

And I love the way the books are written
I’d say the they’re best books that I’ve ever read

Now, son, please
Unlock the door
And let me out the shed

The Marker of Graves

The marker of graves
Sings songs by the Beatles
And remarks upon the weather

The manager of letters
Winds down
With a little Bach

The cleaner of windows
Writes his memoirs
Life is a Chamois Leather

The catcher of dogs
Puts her feet up
In the churchyard
And examines her sandwich
For bugs

The Disappearing School.

I was at a school near Leyton today in East London. Nice school but pretty poor area.
I went by tube. When I arrived at where I thought the school was, according to my map, I discovered it was a different school altogether - a school for special needs. So I asked someone where the school I wanted was. He said, "Sorry, mate. I don't know. I've been away. This is the first time I've been here for three weeks." Hmmm... I thought. Must be a very new school.
Then I asked someone else and they pointed at the special needs school and said - That's it!
No it's not, I said. That's a school for special needs.
I eventually found it even though no one seemed to have heard of it.

Up early in the morning. Off to a school in Guildford.

G'night.