One Bum.

on a seat

I wonder if I can do this?

Take a huge sweep in my writing; starting out with pleasures of the flesh, taking in the weather forecast, covering the futility of being and the psychology of the self before ending with something meaningful about existence.

And all before the bath that I have running is ready to plunge in.

Probably not.

But here goes anyhow.

She was buying cheese, it was raining.

She was beautiful, probably still is.

She was wearing jeans and those big clunky boots that make short legs look long.

Did she catch my eyes?

I think I drooled.

Her hood was up, it was raining – so I couldn’t see her face.

I think I know her.

I know her name.

I shouldn’t drool – it’s unbecoming.

She’s a mum; got a small kid; I think she smokes.

That or her voice is just super sexy.

I was buying fish.

I’m on a fish diet.

Partly for health, partly because I enjoy the artistry with which the fishman – I know his name too – opens the scallops.

I drooled.

It was raining so you couldn’t really tell.

She went off to buy onions.

I did too.

Just a coincidence.

That’s when I heard her speak.

I bought some apples too.

Felt like a snake for a moment, then I moved on.

It was still raining.

I went for a run by the river, no one else was.

Then I drove home.

I listened to Van Morrison in the car.

And I thought about scallops, and music, and her and I thought  - there’s so much beauty and it’s all so pointless.

We just die.

Nothing is left.

Your family discuss the need for a plaque and/or a rose and they see it all as so futile.

And yet it’s all so insistent in the moment.

But the moment passes.

It’s still raining.

The mist is falling too.

The world looks grey and damp and pointless.

Time for a bath.

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