On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave me
away
in a raffle
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On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
a love letter
copied, from one she had sent to someone else
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Five gold rings
(of burned skin, from well aimed coffee)
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
two nights out
(locked from the house)
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
An invitation to bed
on my own.
Film comment: Fakers
Trying, it seems, to be a cross between Catch me if you can and Shooting Fish, this is a jolly romp (TM) that pits a loveable rogue who is in trouble with a gangland boss (see note) against the less intelligent, and more self-obsessed, members of London’s art world. Its good fun, although the unwitting appearence of a wedding ring on the finger of one of the male cast members during a close up suggests either that a significant proportion of that character’s story was cut, or that there was a continuity issue.
Note: Copyright Rentaplot.
They say that history repeats itself. Who am I to argue. But I didn’t know it would be the case.
Did Wales, this year.
Walked about near the edges of the car park, almost onto the grass.
Looked at the hilltop walks from behind glass.
Saw Castles, though, took pics, ran about.
No more following of the little red man. Oh no. That was in the past. But marvelled at the walks on the walls, and how we managed not to fall.
The house was friendly, a welcome vision not seen outside the mind or pictures for 15 years. The plants were bigger but the gate was the same.
The smallest house in Britain was at the same town as the guest house. Both nice, but more space in the chartered room.
My mobile phone liked it so much, it stayed even after leaving to come back to this place.
The face of death stares through the glass at the woman asleep by the fire.
New report
Sitting. At the desk. The computer tries to block my vision but its easy to see over the top; a middle distance stare that would put me in good stead for a job as a model in the freeman’s catalogue.
The park stretches ahead from the office window. To be a squirrel. In summer time. With some peanuts. Close to the path.
No good.
Summer has gone, taking with it the park dwellers and their bags of pre packaged vermin food. But the squirrels here have forgotten that they’re vermin. Too used to being fed.
There’s a crash, as another small furry body falls out of the tree nearest the office. This time, instead of landing in the mouldering heap of grey fur from other failed squirrels, who move only to play with the rats, the branches of the tree catapault the starving creature through my window. It lands in a small sea of glass and blood, in the centre of a report that details the newest business paradigms that will allow us to square the circle of perfection and avoid being sent up river when we’re trying to go downstream.
It is not surprising that the paper pulls the life blood from the animal, although the speed means that it is not so much a blotter, but a suction pump. The squirrel is left, still and silent, its pale face screaming the same silent “why?” that I was expecting from anyone else who encountered the document.