Sunday, December 21, 2008

Christmas poem

‘It was only a Winters Tale’
On Christmas Eve you played it
Over and over until the lyrics swam between us,
But I still refused to hear what you were telling me.

‘A love that could never be’
While we danced naked in the Christmas lights and I laughed
Two-stepping clumsily around half-wrapped presents,
Fuzzy from too many Irish coffees.

‘The nights are colder now’
You whispered it in my ear
So softly that it sounded like a love song
And not a mean spirited promise
That in the morning you would be gone.

I'm such a total girl

Bloody Noel Edmunds making me cry...

Sunday, December 14, 2008

I present to you... the shewee

The shewee, its exactly what it sounds like, classy!!

(that said I am watching Top Gear and need to wee so will miss some... if I had a shewee it wouldn't be a problem...)

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Monday, December 8, 2008


It is possible that I didn’t think this through
Dusty stories and reddened mornings blinding me to truth.
Yesterday it was three glasses of sweetened wine
And a whisky chaser, but in the morning I was fine.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

Alcoholics drink gin in the mornings and shout,
I dream of twisting mazes with no way out.
Calming shaking, sweaty palms from terrors in the night
With a shot of comfort, you can’t say that’s not right.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

I am, at last, happy now to be alone
No grabby, needy wishing you would phone.
What’s one more after the life that we almost had?
One more for almost mother, left by almost dad.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

If you trap yourself completely inside your own brain
It is these small escapes that help you to stay sane.
A drink alone gains you looks from cornered eyes
But who wants others there when the inhibition subsides.

I’m Irish after all, and you’re not drunk until you fall.

I’m proud after all, I fell but still I do not call.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Thursday, December 4, 2008


The security guard reads Mitchner in the mornings
And in the evening wraps himself in haunting classical cords.
If I am lucky he will talk to me sometimes about once upon a times
And another life in a different uniform.

He shows me photographs of grandchildren he has never met
That are worn around the edges and yellowed
And sighs and says that these children are not children any more
But long since raised and grown.

Some one time fight over Christmas dinner had sent
The only daughter home angry, and with no mother,
No heart pulling against their pride and rage
She had never returned and nothing was forgiven.

He likes a drink, in an Irish way, and it shows in his face
And in the slight shake in his hand, the red in his eye
He never says lonely but it seeps from him in waves,
His own quiet dignity heavily tainted with regret.

Em... it was a RADIO show...

TV actor John Barrowman exposing himself during a live radio show "overstepped the mark", the BBC has admitted.

I love these guys...