... not even I can pretend this is a poem of any sort; but perhaps there's a kernal of experimentation in it somewhere?! And it IS a piece of daily writing... :)) K xx

The airline offered to pay for Dinner after they bungled my reservation. That was fine, but I had an extra four hours to wait, had already checked my suitcase and finished the slim novel I had in my hand baggage. In the best Departures restaurant, I sidled into the corner table I was offered and ordered from the prix fixe. A dog-eared copy of some kind of "Hit Me!" magazine had been left by a previous occupant (a quick scan of its pages showed me why) but I propped it against the flower vase and began to browse nonetheless. I’m sure something moved in the garnish on my plate of hors d’oeuvre as I scanned the "Dear Marge" columns: I began to itch in creases I never knew I had. And “Oh, please!”, I scoffed, as I read of how Sandra really did fall for Daniel that time on the beach when he “accidentally” hoofed his football onto her mat then tried to wipe its sandy mark from her butt with his sweaty Arsenal shirt. My twin, tanned pork medallions suddenly lost their appeal. After another four pages’ I felt entirely stuffed. “Think I’m done, thanks!” I politely waved away the menu for dessert. But, five minutes’ later, the flustered waitress was back again, sheepishly trying to place a Death By Chocolate in front of me. I was reminding her that I hadn’t ordered a sweet when I caught sight of a man in a pristine polo shirt hovering nervously behind her left shoulder. He peeped round with an over-whitened smile, triumphantly holding up two spoons. “May I?”, he grinned.