January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment
Mon 27th July 1970
Tues 27th July 1971
Thurs 27th July 1972
Fri 27th July 1973
December 24, 2011 § Leave a comment
Sun 20th Dec 1970
Jenny had her baby – boy, Benjamen. David rung in afternoon + can’t come cos he’d already accepted a party invitation. Sob! Mish + Sue were practically breathing down my neck + commenting a little too loud. Louise can’t come nor John Keane, so 1 spare ticket. Then Audrey, we discovered, has found hers so we have 2 spares. Tried ringing Chris but he’s away for 2 weeks. Sob! Sue and Mish left me to my sorrows.
Mon 20th December 1971
Looked round China fleet. In morn went with Rene to cafe. Lunch (fried bananas wrapped in ham, in cheese, sweet corn sauce)went down Queens Road and looked at shops. Weather mild: Hong Kong; an endless Oxford St. Returned. Went for drink at Yacht Club. The armah Arlee (=Florrie Webb)cooked chops. Couldn’t sleep for sometime.
Wed 20th Dec 1972
Tom said I looked ravishing. Pat, me, Cathy, James, Tom + John went to dance. Cathy flirted with James + John + then eloped v. rudely with Antony Murphy.! (who said I looked like Cleopatra) Tom wished he was in bed with me. He was v. nice + we went to downstairs disco. Coffee with Hames. parted. Pat + I chatted till small hours – she got curse on dress, poor kid. bed.) Tom said he loved me as opposed to in love.
June 7, 2011 § Leave a comment
Little beads of light
dripping from the rusty night
into my heart
clenched so tight,
little beads of light
dripping off the rusty old night.
An old red rail across the night
sweats those little beads of light.
Fear and dreading in my head
hears the singing light come in:
Don’t judge this song,
it sings, just write.
My heart is leaking cold and fear
It forms a pool, a mirror clear.
It shows the darkness crouch and loom,
my future stumbling in the gloom.
The meadowsweet has never flowered,
The wintersweet has never thawed.
I’ve watched and cursed for its stark bare boughs
to be kissed alive by those stiff yellow flowers.
My career has never soared,
my children moan that they are bored.
The sweet remember of our sleep
just takes me down into the deep.
But inside out the song it sings
don’t write about the things you’ve done,
how you are never touched by sun,
how you pretend you’re having fun.
You see the dark side, taste the grief,
old sadness creeps up like a thief-
To snatch it back, for now just write
about the little beads of light.
May 17, 2011 § Leave a comment
I follow her out of Dickens and Jones
on to cold Christmassy Oxford Street.
The back of her cuddly leopard print coat
is promising and her walk is brisk.
I break into a bright little trot to keep up,
my hand reaching for hers.
Her kind face turns, but now I see
I’ve got the wrong mummy.
I should have known,
mine wears the same looking coat
but the fur is real, a dead skinned big cat
brought back from Africa gloved to her back
not a cheery fake like the false mother.
Panic sets in, I so want the other
but she is definitely
the wrong mummy.
It’s well past my bedtime but
through my fingers I’m watching
an old black and white film on the box.
The archaeologist has dropped his spade;
he clutches his throat, staggers back,
as out she comes, trailing rags and rage,
there’s something familiar about the face
of the wrong mummy.