Poem: Delivering Newspapers

Starts out skipping, delighted with the role

Discovers bright numbers and a furry caterpillar; notes flowers and passers-by

Look at him. He’s flash.

Complements each letterbox in turn and checks for a backdoor

Paper tucked under one arm, head high and smiling

This one is slithy. You know what I mean when I say slithy. It’s feels smooth. It goes in smoothly.

Warm little hand like a kitten in mine. Like a kitten curled up in the sun.

Runs ahead

Haha I’m cheating!

Dancing away, within reach. Dancing in the breach, and back.

Suddenly slowly, the delivery girl dragging, the papers run out just in time.

Paralysed by dithering

Here's the thing: I totally have things to blog about. Oh yeah. But I *caaan't* (whiny voice) because: Two of my four readers either (a) know who I'm talking about or (b) are who I'm talking about. So I'm left talking about people who I don't even know (and therefore have very little to say about) or don't matter to me (ditto). Actually, the people I talk about don't actually read this blog, but THEY MIGHT oneday, and this thought horrifies me.

What do all the really worldly, older, more experienced bloggers do about this dilemma, I wonder?

Do they throw caution to the wind, and discuss the intimate details of their closest relationships and bugger the consequences?

Or do they instead keep abreast of all the latest global and local political happenings and blog knowledgably on those?

I suspect it's a bit of both.

However, being both a coward and an ignoramus, I am a little stuck.

Dear Old Bill

Life's good. Bill is fishing somewhere down south, and we lasses get to take up space. This is no small thing. When Bill walks out the front door, it's like a whole tribe goes with him. Bill really is larger than life. He's the sort of bloke that walks into a room before you actually see him. His personal space is acres-big. This would be a bad thing if he still drank a bottle of rum a day and lacked discernment as to whom should be beaten up for insults flung from three people away and so generally just made things easier for himself by collaring any available chap within arm's reach.

However, he was always nice to women, children and dogs. And thankfully, even in his most inebriated state, never confused the three. A menace on the dance floor, however.

Sigh. I do miss him.

Just another manic Sunday...

I love Thursdays. This is because Fridays don't matter - the week is so done by the time it gets to Friday that it really counts as part of the weekend. There's no point in starting anything new on Friday.

So Thursdays are really the last day of the week, filled with the glorious plan that everything that one has been postponing for the last three weeks will, indeed, be performed on the weekend.

Ah The Weekend, that mystical realm where every day has 36 hours, where sleeping in until 10 o'clock still leaves time for a day full of family outings, household renovations and focussed, effective study and genius-level completion of university assignments.

The only problem with The Weekend is that it has a Sunday. Sunday is a terrible day. All of my good plans are cheekily jay-walking across the boulevard when Sunday comes gunning its modified engines like a demon. Like a possessed demon. (Sunday is so evil, it requires several metaphors, in combination.) It bears down on the startled Plans until they are caught in its headlights. The Plans' ears twitch this way and that, their little round eyes fill with terror. The fiendish Sunday roars with laughter "HARHAR! You can run, little Plans, you can hide! But You Will Not Escape!" The Plans squeal helplessly, but it's too late. Sunday runs them down, smashing them mercilessly into the bitumen, reversing, then running over them again and again until nothing is left except for a pile of scribbled papers and an empty chocolate wrapper.

I hate Sundays.

The drive to Bunbury

The sky sobs and shrieks
and tormented trees toss their soaking heads.
Car after car rolls silently over the bridge.
Everyone is going to a funeral today.