LAVA-LAMP THOUGHT

Cascading worlds float
In a molten-wax jet-stream.
Accomplice satellites stretch away,
Young planet: sail on, slip on through
Fuse and melt, make or break,
Like lovers. Like planets
Colliding in a glass jar.

NIGHT-TIME

A helicopter buzzes past the slightly opened window. An angered wasp. The engine drifts away but never disappears - it beats its metal wings and hums. Tarmaced stip of prey; cracks in the brickwork like crows feet in a face. Winter night. Clouds roll the moon along outstretched arms and across the back of a headless neck. Dance to the tune of blades, sirens and rain.

MADEJSKI STADIUM COMPLEX

The 'Madejski Stadium Complex' is:

a new development consisting of a medium-sized football ground with all the things you'd now associate with the Premiership - eg Integral William Hill betting, pie shop/McDonalds/conference halls/a luxury hotel/etc

or

the name of a psychological condition in which the afflicted person feels the need to name grandiose and expensive projects after himself; compulsive eponymous habits.

Obviously, it's the former, but whenever I see or hear reference to the "Madejski Stadium Complex" - which is often - I think of it in terms of the latter. Madejski is a Polish multi-millionaire, who made his fortune with AutoTrader magazine and gifted the town with a 21st century football ground. Perhaps it will enter the language of psychology. Probably not.

IN/OUT/AT

About three years ago, I arranged to meet someone I’d only ever emailed. It was an unusual meeting but it wasn’t murky or illicit in any way (it wasn’t an internet date). We agreed to meet at a West End pub – the Three Cocks, as I remember. At least, I think that was the name. With hindsight, the name wasn’t important. Bizarrely, the preposition turned out to be the important thing. “At the Three Cocks”. I arrived on time and bought a drink and settled in a corner, reading a newspaper. I kept looking for him, but he was nowhere. I felt a bit let down when he didn’t show but didn’t worry about it unduly. I went home. The next day, he emailed me and said something like: “I was there. Honest!”. I wondered how this could possibly be, but it turns out he’d been standing outside, all along, in the fading twilight.

We sorted things out from there, and I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that we became friends for a while. I think we did, anyway. I never see him now… although I still think of him, obviously. He was tall and slim and had a certain way of raising his eyebrows. When he smiled, his lips would kind of twitch in a half smile. Occasionally he made me feel unsure of myself. He didn’t mean to. I don’t know what the logical end to this story is. The misunderstanding with the pub shows that small things can signify greater meaning. It was a kind of metaphor for our intractable differences.

iPod

I did a self-indulgent thing and bought an iPod. And, oh! - how I love it!!!! I waited for so long and couldn't wait any longer. When I heard that James Brown had died on Christmas Day, rather than rifling through mountains of CDs I just scrolled through. I spent ten seconds wondering about his finest hour... I'd say it has to be "Live at the Apollo", Harlem, 1962. An instant later I was listening to 'Lost Someone' and 'If You Leave Me I'll Go Crazy'... magic! It's all very instant and twenty-first centruy, but brilliant - also handy for moments when you hear about the sudden death of musical legends.

SAUNA POEM

Three Henry Moore statues are reclining
The nearest in the pose of The Thinker.
Tufts of hair on his balding head
Enlightened by the bulb in the corner
Beads of sweat shine on his balding scalp.
Marbled white legs, thighs like loaves
Bend at the knee, doughy and soft.
Bared bodies, smelling of flesh
And in the hot tub
One knee beneath the bubbles
Flat and large and smooth
A pebble in a fast-flowing stream.
A man with a beard, like seaweed
Clinging to the rock of his chin.
The water drifts it to and fro
The brush of a flailing hand
The unexpected touch of a toe.

WATERSTONES

That's Waterstones the high-street book retailer. I went in a few days before Christmas and came out with a large carrier bag - I asked for one in order to 'disguise' a present bought elsewhere which I didn't want to be visible. Getting sidetracked, but picking up the carrier bag again now, I just noticed that the legend on the side of their carrier bag says "A bookstore is one of the only pieces of evidence we have that people are still thinking" [Jerry Seinfeld]. Which is a bloody laugh, because I only went in, in the first place, to pick up the autobiography of Stephen Fry, or the biography of Kennneth Williams, or both. I think each has contributed to cultural life in recent years and both appear to be fascinating, complicated characters. In the biography section there were just 'pile em high' racks of biographies of Jade Goody, Teri Hatcher (who is she? Was she in Sex in the City?) and their like. Neither the Kenneth Williams nor the Stephen Fry book was there!! Which means their 'quote' on the carrier bag is bogus. "A bookstore is evidence that people are thinking... too much about people from the tele" .

FREEZING FOG

These days, many of us tend to be thoroughly entertained and comforted by central heating, games consoles, flat-screen TVs, 'in car stereo systems' etc. There's nowhere left for the mind to wander, our minds are so busy, busy, busy. But freezing fog on the longest day of the year? Just forget about modern life with all its distractions and imagine living two hundred years ago out in the country in this weather. Imagine a very damp, rickety stone cottage - all candlelight, shadows and draughts, heated by an open fire, with fog rolling in over the fields.

Haikus

Dusk. The bird on the fence.
A contemporary
of mine.

And the quiet cat
Sitting by the post
Perceives the moon.

A Simile

I picked up a nice little (and therefore overpriced) book of similes the other day, taken from many and various sources. One that caught my eye was this:
"I felt lonely, like a little boat that no longer goes out to sea".
Which I liked. Along with the knuckles-as-moutain-range which I can't remember properly. Although I do recall they were gripping the steering wheel of a car.

In praise of Vee

Veerle is a Belgian who hates Belgium. She speaks Flemmish and English (well), plus German and French (less well). Veerle thinks her calves look 'like leeks!' and shouts 'I'm free!' under bridges. Veerle works on Eurostar, pushing the drinks trolley, fending off criticisms that take the form of 'Grooming is very important, you understand'. Veerle worked picking fruit in a field this summer. Veerle is smiley, freckly and blonde, with shining green eyes. Veerle is 36, funny, feisty and intelligent; many English people call Veerle 'Vee' because it's much easier to say. Veerle is my good friend and I love her.