Wednesday, 28 September 2011

Challenge Accepted

It has recently been pointed out to me that it is nearly two years since I last updated my blog. So, taking inspiration from the prolific the ubiquitous lol, here is my latest post.

Oh how much has changed in the last two years! I have learned how to add links (see above) - so that readers who find themselves bored of whimsical prose about the failures of a writer of prosaic whimsy can go and read something more interesting. I am still hungover and debt-ridden and failing to write a novel - so no need to change the tagline (at least until the Western economy finishes tanking and we are all debt-free and scavenging in bins to feed our families). I have added a photograph of me in my monkey-tail beard phase. I have discovered a pillow arrangement that allows you to write comfortably in bed.

The soft comforts of the Golden Triangle in Norwich continue to embrace me. I nearly left when Katy and I broke up for the final time (not the time bitterly recorded in Haiku below) in February this year. Here is a poem I wrote and rewrote obsessively over the two years that we battled the inevitable.

You are the city, but this city's not for me.
You're the cobblestones beneath the fallen leaves,
You're the late September sun and February freeze,
You're "A Guinness and a Stella please,"
In pubs from Unthank Road to Prince of Wales
Under Christmas lights, through January sales.

You are the city, but this city's not for me.
You're every sunset viewed from Mousehold Heath,
You're second-hand shopping down Magdalene Street,
You're breathless up Kett's Hill and kissing underneath
The Catholic Cathedral gate
After drinking in the Temple Bar til late.

You are the city, but this city's not for me.
No more tripping down the corridors of Waverney,
Demolished now, replaced by some monstrosity.
Our friends all gone - you're all that's left for me.
My City - You're Chapelfield and Eaton Park,
You're all wrapped up for lakeside traipsing after dark.

You are the city.
You are the city.
You are the city.

But you are gone and now the city's all I see
And litter lies among the fallen leaves
And belching traffic fouls the summer breeze
And these days it's: "Just a Guinness please,"
In the Eaton Cottage or the Temple Bar.
You were once, will be, forever are
My city, but this city's not for me.

Of course, it would probably have been a more truthful poem if I had actually left Norwich in a fit of violent passion determined to wreak vengeance on a world that allows for such heartbreak. In truth, I just quietly and (I like to think) patriotically carried on doing exactly what I'd been doing for the last four years. I will explore the theme of veracity a little further in my next post.