past tense

It seemed to me then, that it would always be this way. That it would always be a surprise to walk out of a party at nine thirty at night and find the sky the colour of butter, That his childish mannerisms and forlorn looks would always delight me. How reckless now, I know, was he who wrote, 'the past is a foreign country.' Perhaps for professional historians, maybe, but for those of us amateurs not protected by the armour of expertise, the past is all too real. The past is a back garden, filled with uncontrollable weeds.

Top 10 reasons why you should never sleep with The Man

1) Playing dirty hide and seek with the surveillance cameras is only fun for a little while.

2) It isn't the size that matters, but what He can do with it.

3) And He can't do anything with it. Cf. Health and Safety at Work Act 1974

4) Your sexy police helicopter impression isn't sexy: it's shit.

5) What seems cool in a foreign country isn't such a good idea back home.

6) Big Brother is never as good with a condom on.

7) Despite all His promises, He'll never make you Queen.

8) Or famous.

9) Unless the phones are tapped, He'll never call.

10) It's not Him; it's you. Cf. Immigration Act 1971 and Immigration Act 1988.

The Civil War goes Global

For D.P.

In session three of what the fish had taken to calling my 'cultural enrichment programme', he asked me to take him to one of my regular haunts. He said he hoped it would help him figure out where I went wrong.

I took him to a little place in Shoreditch. 'I've only been here once,' I said, 'but they do make an excellent Sazerac.'

'Fine,' the fish countered, 'but does our waiter know who said: "when sorrows come, they come in battalions"? How do you suppose you will ever learn anything if you persist in such ignorance.'

The poor waiter's skin-tight jeans and trendy tousled hair were no match for the fish's aggressive contempt. The waiter turned his head toward me, as if to ask for help, though he looked surprised when I finally spoke up: 'if you want to know the answer, go and buy your own fish.'

Surprisingly the fish laughed loudly and said, 'that's funny, I don't know either.' He slammed his empty lowball on the glass-topped table, making an awful sound. 'Another round, young man, and one on the house!' Many made-up faces turned to stare at his outrageous behaviour.

He fixed me with judgemental eyes and asked what I hoped to gain from my purchase. I was becoming uncomfortable with the nature of our relationship. 'I rather gathered,' I said, 'that I paid for you to answer those sorts of questions, not to ask them.'

'You know,' he said after a lengthy pause, 'you cannot write poems about fish forever.'