Self Portrait

​No, I think this chap was just standing in the road when the rain started to fall, and the chap in his van was listening to the football scores and the scores of mostly men in cardigans (they weren’t wearing cardigans) were running onto the field to the celebrate.

‘Celebrate your love and celebrate your hate,’ the chap said in a mood that was quite substantial, as his mother slept in the next room, and his father ran over a phrase some more that was lightning.

‘It’s lightning,’ he said the next time he saw his son and he showed him.

And his son said, ‘Just play it slower so you can feel it. To hell with it being faster. I mean, it’s all very impressive, but if you can’t relax into it, what’s the point.’

The point was that the magazine said it was important and properly required.

But what if it wasn’t?

The chap got up and went to the window. He was not tired. The town was quiet. 

The woman who chopped the tree down in her garden to make way for a summer house she had yet to erect was sleeping now. 

A woman who lived alone was burning some papers in a pan on the hob as a way to dispose of them. She was about to set the fire alarm off. 

The outcome of the cup final had yet to be decided. The pundits had likely decided on their outfits and they were hung off the back of chairs in their hotels or in peculiar wardrobes. 

Debbie’s note: this is a bit flowery, this morning?

It’s afternoon, Debbie.

Debbie; Still… Swallowed a dictionary this morning?

Trying to not stand in my own road.