Brian Kelly's Boys

I see his shock of red follicle growth and flash of teeth out the corner of my eye. Their whispers are hiding beneath a layer of the Fighting Irish and the Fighting Irish are hiding beneath a layer of fiddle. He and his pals are plotting. My friend has deserted me to cackle atop the resident brass horse. The front man is busying himself tormenting the crowd with two fingers on one hand and one on the other. You can buy two of their albums and get one free. They’re teaching you to jig with the aid of a chimpanzee on VHS. Friend settles back on stool and Red’s throat is coated with another shot. He approaches us in his V-neck. “What would you like, girls?”. He pulls up his jumper to release several falling citron. I glance from his freckled face to the lemons and limes rolling on the floor with laughter to my friend’s amused grin. Red gathers his offspring and scuttles away. I bowl the remainder to him across the bar.

Cabbage Soup

My car has an attitude problem. It’s angry at me. My passenger hasn’t fastened his seatbelt and the car can sense his presence. My car emits an obnoxious beeping until the seatbelt has been fastened. My passenger finds this amusing and takes his time. Two days later. My car is angry at me once again. I’m confused. I look to the passenger seat where my lunchbox is proudly sitting. The car can sense its presence. My car emits the familiar beeping. What is it trying to tell me, intolerable car. I tell it not to be so impertinent as I begrudgingly fasten the seatbelt around my lunchbox and think about going on a diet.

Sara, photocopier, photocopier, Sara

My parking space. My parking space and nobody else’s. Two
long weeks as an office temp and I finally feel like part of the permanent
team. Most people still don’t know who I am or why I loiter around the
photocopier for hours on end, but at least I have a parking space to call my
own. At first I tried to resist. I was a car park mutineer. I dared to park in
someone else’s space. I visited a different space each day of the week. It was short-lived.
My victim would arrive five minutes earlier in order to secure their space. Assuming
they went home at all. Perhaps they braved the twilight temperatures, digging
their fingernails into the steering wheel, scowling through gritted teeth. I
soon admitted defeat. It was a lost cause. I refuse to abandon my radical
streak however. Sometimes I reverse into my space. Sometimes I leave my wipers
up. Yesterday a rebellious young wretch tried their luck like I once did. I
arrived to discover my space occupied. I could be seen thundering into the office
whilst setting my alarm for five minutes earlier.

Songs of the Humpback Whale

I'm wandering around a field. It's too early for a Sunday. I'm searching for hidden treasures. My sunglasses mean I don't have to make eye contact with anyone. I'm eyeing up their belongings. I'm sizing them up. A sweating pallid couple are discarding their No-Meat Cookbook for 50p. An audacious young fellow wants you to see his assortment of Top Gear magazines. He lures you in by taking his top off and yelling at you like a market trader. A small bespectacled man is parting with his old DVDs. The scrawls on his upturned cardboard box encourage you to enquire about his adult collection. The enormous butcher van has come along with the enormous butcher. A pair of sweating pallid ears prick at the mention of lamb burgers and shuffles off for a browse. Innumerable patterned bedpans suggest the inside toilet has arrived in The Fens and is here to stay. If it's a bacon butty and Jodi Picoult's complete bibliography you're after, what a veritable treasure trove.

Three leaf clover

The grass was slightly damp so I turned to my front to dry my back. And vice versa. I continued in this way for much of the afternoon and part of the evening. I watched the users of the nearby water fountain. I watched the ladies and gentlemen collecting bottles and earning more per hour than a waiter. I watched the pages of my book. On the occasions that I was sunning my front, I watched fourteen planes float overhead. I watched the two contrails merge into one like someone zipping a zip. I watched them until they disappeared out of view. Apart from one. When the fourteenth plane was gliding past I watched a head appear above me. The head had a mouth. I watched the mouth open and close. It was in possession of few teeth. The mouth belched out a few languages before matching one with the tepid welcome emitted from mine. This spurred the head on and it rooted itself beside me. It brought the mouth along for a Pilsner wafted ride. I wished the mouth's lips would merge into one like someone zipping a zip. "I've got something for you". The head had also brought dirty fingernails which now plucked at a clover below. I politely accepted my gift and the mouth took a satisfied swig from its empty bottle. The head almost bent backwards in order to locate the last drop. The head ended up amongst the clover and couldn't summon the energy to rise once more. I glanced back to see a hunched lady picking up the bottle.

Drink coffee: Do stupid things faster and with more energy

She's inching towards me. Her eyes alternate rapidly between the saucer in each hand. She's moving very slowly, as if on a tightrope. I pretend she's on a tightrope. In feathered attire. The tip of her tongue is protruding from her lips. I imagine it's the face she pulls when stirring porridge. Leering into the saucepan. Nervous and expectant. She likes porridge. She has a destination, I am it, but she has momentarily forgotten about me. I am way below the saucer, the glass balancing on said saucer, the pavement directly in front of her, the top hat, clownish faces and various tamed beasts. Once she reaches her destination, she smiles with relief. I instantly realise something is amiss. "Where's the morsel at?" I ask anxiously. "What do you mean you have to pay for your morsel?". I look at the neighbouring table. They aren't even the good kind of morsel. They have raisins in. In this city the coffee is great everywhere. You base your choice of coffee shop on the sugary morsel that accompanies your hot beverage. Amaretti biscuits were something of a treat before I ventured here. Now I will walk 20 minutes out of my way to receive a chocolate filled crispy tube rather than one of those tedious has-beens. Today we have no morsel and it pains me. I vow never to darken this big top flap again.

British National Pear Conference

An ode to the pear. A modest fruit. I'm uncertain as to what kind of foolishness incites the curious relationship I have with the pear. I am confused by my own feelings. One day I will crave the aromatic buttery flesh. The next I am indifferent. It's nothing the pear has done. It's me, not you, pear. The pear has the right to stand proud and magnificent in its russeted skin. When I can be bothered to sink my teeth into the bulbous rear I almost always regret not doing so sooner. I feel ashamed for neglecting the pear for so long. I vow never to do so again as long as I live. But of course, this I have forgotten by the following sunrise. I am fickle. My attentions are stolen away in a flight of fancy with the exotic banana and its libertine ways. I rendezvous with the royal gala and its crisp and firm rotundness. I will savour those precious moments spent with the pear when the mood again takes me. Until then, patient pear.