where art collides philosoperontap

Remove my specs and rub my eyes – a moment of relief
Run a hand through my hair – not too long but this morning feels as if it needs a cut
Coffee cup lies empty – froth clings to the sides
Cobwebs cling inside my head – specs need a clean

Around me people talk of escalators and computers and trousers at £9 from ASDA and interesting things from Skellingthorpe and a grandad looks after his boy and a phone rings in the distance

The train runs half an hour late. Your stop is cancelled. The train crawls to a halt there anyway. The doors aren’t released. *#%TILT%#*

from an original tweet by @paul_clarke

Acid rain keeps me inside the dome. Outside there is devastation and mutants prowl the denuded forest. Communications with the rest of the world stopped some time ago – can’t tell how long. I am comfortable enough. I have a table under the awning looking out onto the pavement. I sit here perpetually, it seems. Nobody asks for the bill. Nobody wants to know when I will be going. There is nowhere to go. I can’t get back to my villa. The drinks keep coming. Each one feels fresh as if it was my first. I sometimes eat and they clear the plates away.

MENU DE SOIR, Plats chauds, Cocktails, Porto, Champagne, Plats du Jour, Sorbets, Crème glaces, desserts, croques, SALADES, patissierie, café – thé

Fumbling to unlock my phone I stare at the icons far longer than any sane person should. The screen was about to timeout – again – as I finally focussed on the clock; clock? Clock? I have no idea what I was trying to do.

My body groaned as I moved haggardly from the dark bedroom to the shower, then back to the bedroom. Time shifted and I found myself in the kitchen, fully clothed – a good sign at least.

Recently I’ve been getting a bit more sleep than the average enlisted man under Haig during the battle of the Somme, so I should at least be thankful for small mercies.  Still, that didn’t stop me pouring boiling water into the open coffee jar I had spooned a mound of granules from thirty seconds earlier.

Shit, bugger and fuck. Well, it’s only a few quid of wasted coffee. It could have been worse; I could have poured scolding hot water down my leg – again.

I drained the jar of steaming brown sludge into the sink before filling my actual mug with water as first intended.

Startled by a piercing melody emanating from my pocket I gave a jolt, causing scolding hot water to slosh perilously close to my leg as I fumbled to silence the alarm on my phone.

Clock. Alarm clock. Why didn’t I shut that off the moment I woke up?

For the first time in a fortnight I’d managed to creep out of bed, shower and navigate the stairs without waking neither my wife nor the baby.

Now, a piercing scream fills the house, amplified by the baby monitor.  Pointless in a house this size; the sound waves from its speaker travel straight back to the little bugger’s ears, most likely scaring the crap out of him. No wonder he’s crying louder by the second.

Teething? Feeding? A filled nappy? It matters not, as I know the blame lays squarely with me.

Better luck tomorrow, maybe…

Cooped up, stressed, tired, argumentative, sulky, whinge, smoke alarm, trumpet practice, noise, noise, noise, noise, noise.

A bike ride brings peace. A corner of the table. A quiet brunch.  A large cup of tea.  Ahhh.

Just come back from a walk in the allotments at the back of our house. It was a privilege to have been the first human there after the snow. Not quite the same as a being the first to lay eyes on Shangrila but these days we have to be grateful for any small discoveries allowed to us.

Having recently watched the BBC series frozen planet our bit of snow does seem a little pathetic but hey, I’ll take it.

I am laid back on the sofa near the fire listening to Pink Floyd. In my own little world. This music is so near to perfection that I want to write the equivalent of it in prose, or poetry. Words should be able to take me away in the same way that the music does. There is no reason why words alone can’t anaesthetise. Carry.

Our family tonight has become the ultimate technology victim. Anne is sat on the floor inserting leaflets into “Target” newspapers whilst watching some TV programme on the iPad and listening through earphones.  We are in our own zones. There is no need to talk to each other. Each other’s presence is enough. The kids are elsewhere.

No great words from  me though. Just meanderings. As the log fire dances slowly its warmth gently permeates.

Nothing that is on the TV attracts me. It strikes me that talented as some of these programme makers must be we can surely have nothing in common.

I saw a man in an orange high viz top

He looked as if he was picking up rubbish

He picked up a cigarette stub, studied it and slipped it in his pocket

I gagged

Jaunty jazz-filled airwaves at Café Guzel. Not many customers but it is after 9am and they should all be at work. I can see them striding purposefully by outside, well wrapped up against the zero degrees first day in February. The café is comfortable and its walls are covered in fifties and sixties movie memorabilia together with souvenir number plates from the far side of the Atlantic.

I am facing the big front windows but behind me I can hear café-like activity. Frying, clanking dishes and the banter in another language between the chef and waitress.

The music has stopped and I can now hear the traffic and what sounds like the moan of the wind outside though it may be the beginning of the next track! I have a few more minutes before I need to head off for my meeting.

Occasionally the door opens and someone else enters. Good morning…