Yesterday, to Sainsbury’s for vittals. They are doing the ‘two-fers’ for all they are worth and, after checking the ‘ok to home-freeze’ button, I find them hard to resist. There’s something inherently comforting about a good store of high quality grub.
So I gulped when I saw the total at the check-out, but soon recovered. It’s worth it. Me and the squirrels, eh? Must be the time of year.
Mind you, Christmas is spreading out along the shelves in Sainsbury’s now, like ice fingers in The Day After Tomorrow though not as fast. Or final. Come the new year it’ll all get swept aside, ready for the next festival.
This morning I was just getting into the opening phrases and rhythms of a new poem, soothed along by something innocuous on Classic FM, when Graham came into the study bearing a CD.
“Let’s hear something that’ll show how good your hifi is,” he said, snapping the radio off and clicking the CD player on.
“What’s that, then?”
“You’ll have to guess.”
I tried but failed. Sort of classical in bits but increasingly modern and pop as it went along.
“I give in,” I said. And then the vocal cut in. “Oh. It’s Muse. I should have known.”
So we listened appreciatively, and Graham went away again, leaving me with…
Another failed poem.
All I had left in my head was the title, and no real idea where the body was going to go. Ah well. It’s a shame to waste a good title:
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HOW TO BOIL A HIPPO
First, place your hippo in water.
Season to taste, then apply heat.
Run.
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