Dissolving magazines

A few years ago, my favourite author, Jonathan Carroll, was in Birmingham, doing his only UK book signing in the then wonderful Andromeda book shop. At the time, an issue of Playboy had just come out that contained one of his stories. I’d actually bought it, and had sat in the garden reading the story. Unfortunately, I hadn’t moved quickly enough with a sudden storm, and it got soaked. Because of which, it had fallen to bits.

Anyway, having requested that he signed the large pile of books that I’d brought up to the table – he asked if I had the Playboy edition.

“Yes,” I replied, “but I’d better get another copy because mine’s already fallen apart.”

Sometimes its true that you shouldn’t meet your heros, because you can end up saying something to them that makes you look like a wanker.

Preparations for running your first 10k race:

1. Go out for drinks the night before. The come home and stay up till 2am.

2. Forget to eat carbs the day before or the day of the race.

Results:

481 (of 650), 56mins 38 seconds.

Celebration:

Fall asleep. Wake up, say woo.

The Sledge of Bones

They pulled the sledge of bones over up to the old playing field as the winter light faded. The sledge of bones. Dad had named it that, as they upwrapped it under the tree, and they laughed at the mouldings down the side of the body.

Keith had never been to the playing field, being too young for that school. Nigel, his brother, was playing the leader. It was their time for exploration, the time when Dad slept in his arm chair and Mum did the washing up or took more valium. Today was the first snow since Christmas, and they were determined to enjoy the new toy.

“Race you to the tree!”

Keith looked confused, but soon chased after his brother, catching up as the weight of the sledge slowed his run. They stopped, laughed, and looked about them. The field was quiet, screened from the traffic by a line of trees. They stood by the tree.

“Keith?”

“wot?”

“You know this tree is haunted. There was this old witch and..”

“Stop it!”

“she was hated by everone in the town. They hung here, here, from the branches.”

There was just the slightest gust of wind, enough for the branches to sway gently.

“And if you come to the tree after dark, they say that she will GET YOU!”

Distracted by his own shouting and the poor light, Nigel didn’t see the small dark stain across his brother’s trousers.

“She wouldn’t get us, would she?'”

“Of course not.” A different voice. A girl. Neither of them had seen her arrive.

“Who are you?”

The girl looked at them, but was mute. She smiled.

“I said who are you?”

“Nigel!”

The girl mouthed something.

“What?”

“Its all pretend. The story. Ignore him.”

She looked at Nigel. Keith stared at the ground between his brother and the girl.

Its hard to be angry.

Some people are misguided.

But even without anger, there is extreme disappointment.

After all, everyone knows that the letters EI should be pronounced “EE” and not “EYE” when in some words.

The shame of it.

Woke up, after a night of wild dreams. My head felt like a donkey had moved in. Went downstairs. There was a mysterious absence of absinthe, compared to the night before.

After the beauty of the urban springs

Today, i planted my brain
i buried it, in hope
like hemp seed
in the airing cupboard, next to the light switch

i think it cried in terrified strain
the agony of thinking was too great for it
unless, of course, it was a complaint
that I’d watched Countdown, first

So, now I think I’ll start a note book
a celebration of its thoughts
for its a good brain
especially now that its buried

I wonder if I’ll think again?