Well, it's got the mention of poetry in it, but I rather fancy a spot of short fiction! This is a beginning... if anyone has any ideas for a middle, I'll try to give it a whirl... and, who knows, it might even be concluded as well! On the other hand, perhaps the least said the better; just blame it on my hour's exercise this evening, releasing I don't know what after an 8-week lay-off! Have a good week, Folks. K xx

GET A GRIP…


“Life is not a poem, Kate”, Annie said, as the London bus lurched another twenty feet forwards under the heavy boot of the driver; obviously he had had another row with his wife last night and passengers would suffer…

“It so bloody well is…” Kate picked her apple back up off the floor and recovered herself into an upright position before her face took another broadside from the flapping jacket of the conductor who was struggling to maintain his sea-legs; he muttered “poetry” under his breath.

She polished up the apple on the lapel of her jacket and spoke through the first juicy bite: “Whether on the brightest mountain top or in the darkest abyss, life is just a succession of on-going moments, each one poetic in its way…”

The flick of a bristling newspaper on the back of her head marked the profound disagreement of the older gentleman behind. The woman in front leant her head against the greasy window, her heavy sigh delicately misting the glass. And the wide-eyed expression of the immaculately made-up woman opposite seemed to register a mute recognition, perhaps wondering if her particular “poem” might be about to expose details of the life of a lesser-known Conservative MP.

Kate sensed the rush-hour bus filling with the animation of words, spoken and unsaid; then emptying, spilling living rhyme as people got off and went their way. Poetry, like fragrance emitted from the Perfumery Department at Debenhams, was permeating and energising the early-morning city just as surely as low rays of winter sun slowly crawled their way up last-night’s streets…