Waiting For The Therapist


There is a babble. It sounds

like ears stuffed with cotton wool.

The receptionists are pleasant but

maybe they don’t want us

to become lost property.


Wonder if they feel superior – winning

conkers on this crisp, Autumn

day as we are leaves scattered on

the ground, already trodden

into mulch.




39 Degrees

39 degrees


Today I could cook my breakfast

on the pavement, spitting there,

between the doc ends and

discarded cheap-lager cans. Save


on the energy bills, al fresco

cuisine – dine with the homeless. The

eggs would gaze up at me like that

woman’s breasts sweating in her


Lycra, skimpy top. The sun has

hit pasty limbs hanging from

cheap shorts, chests bared to

the air – Men thinking that is


what we women want to see, as

we point, and ponder unbaked

baguettes. 39 degrees and we

are pink cuts on a butcher’s slab.