Told you I was sick
Old age and hypochondria go together like Steptoe’s horse and carriage
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poetry
Springtime
When every curved brown stick on the ground looks like a Brown Snake freshly emerged from hibernation and hungry.
5pm, September 30, 2018
As I sit outside in the Sun, 400 million year old rock beneath my feet, guarding my chickens against Goshawk death from the blue sky, dozens of tiny dinosaurs fly past my chair – sparrowsaurs and wrensaurs. The setting Sun ends another day of my 27,000 days (or thereabouts) so far on this ancient planet.
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I should have known better
In later life you forget the results of old sporting contests that once seemed more important than life and death.
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Catch me if you can
If you can’t write something original, best not to write anything at all.
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On the road again
A runaway bus with your number on it, a heart attack, a crazed terrorist, a pot falling from a balcony, a cosmic ray hitting a cell nucleus. Will you make it home again from the supermarket?
Oh, all right, just a peek, now and then
When you are born you should be presented with a 70-year-diary, every day already filled in, a bright red ribbon tied around the cover. Then, as you work your way through life, you could constantly check where you were up to and what lay ahead. Or perhaps it would be best to leave it closed,
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