So I sit, as comfortable as an arthritic
On a cold, damp day.
I’m inside Sittingbourne Library and
I pine at the books that surround me.
I have to shift constantly in my fuchsia torture chair.
I am told it’s fuchsia by an attractive library assistant,
With a high pitched southern scratch.
I wouldn’t know what “fuchsia” was
Even if it sidled up to me and carved its colour into my hand
Whilst screaminG: “I’M FUCHSIA, YOU GIMP!”
Back to my pining.
I shift again like I did last summer.
I pine. I lament. I damn-right sulk.
For everywhere I look, among the
Briefs Encountered by Julian Clary,
A wide selection of Dick Francis;
Vanishing Africa by Gianni Giansanti;
Clive James’ hilarious commentaries;
Poetry by the laureate Ted Hughes;
Terry Pratchet; et al…
In between I see big spaces…with the
Scared voice of the boy from Sixth Sense
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