The Christmas wish list keeps growing. You are still waiting for an item you might be able to afford to make an appearance.
In the meantime, you check the charity shops several times a day. You find a few acceptable branded clothes in excellent nick; they cost more than you should spend, but it is Christmas. Some of them are even on the list. But you don’t have high hopes for Star Wars toys or the electronics which make up the bulk of the list.
It’ll be the usual for Christmas Day – chicken with a side order of massive disappointment.
I know I’ve no right to make demands. I acted like a right selfish cow. I thought, though, I wanted to be free again.
But I’ve been sat here for hours, writing my wish list. All I’ve to show for myself is a page filled with your name.
You know how they say you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone? Yeah, that. Should have seen it coming, right? Should have known that my heart didn’t like the decision to leave you. My head has conceded defeat. They both want you back. I want you back.
She’s put on her warm coat out of habit. There’s no need, she’ll be stewing in the shops. Drizzly, though. She opens her red umbrella.
Maybe she shouldn’t bother. She sends the parcels tracked, she knows they arrive. Do the clothes fit, she wonders. Do the children like their books and toys? The twins will be teenagers soon, then she’ll really struggle for presents.
It’s not that she demands a thank you. It’d be nice to hear she spends money on the right things. Maybe a card, with a photo.
Because she doesn’t know what her grandchildren look like anymore.
’Tis the season to be grateful for supermarket deliveries. She’s not going anywhere unless she has to. The weather outside is frightful; the incessant festive music, despite her attempts to ignore it, will worm itself into her head. And torture her. Music is, like smell, hardwired to memories of excitement that will give her hope despite herself. Happy golden days of yore, retroactively turned into a Technicolor dream. Because if she’s honest, it never was a happy time. Isn’t it why she’s made the decision to grinch it? Low expectations, no disappointment.
There’s nothing like watching yourself say goodbye to the man you love at the airport. You’re doing your best to keep it together. He might detect a hint of moisture in your eyes. But your breathing is steady, your voice sounds as usual, your words belie the turmoil you’ve disguised so well.
He says he’ll be back, he has to go home to get a few things in order. You don’t know what things. For all you know, he has a wife there. But who are you to quarrel.
To his back as he walks airside you whisper, ‘Farewell, scoundrel’.
If you’re interested in reading about how I keep coming up with ideas, I shed a little light on the process in my second mslexia guest post.
Solving the obesity crisis is simple: Make the fatsos eat less. I can do it, so they can, too. Lazy is all they are, sitting on their large backsides all day, stuffing their faces with crisps and bickies. If they had any willpower, they’d have no problem. If they want to keep eating all that junk, they’ll have to exercise. They’d better start training for marathons or something. But instead, they make up all sorts of excuses for their weight gain and blame the food industry for it.
A calorie is a calorie is a calorie, after all.
I made the mistake of reading the comments on an article about obesity today. I’ve rephrased the most commonly made arguments above. If I had had a pound for every time I read “a calorie is a calorie”, I would have made a mint. It’s stupid. It’s not even an argument. All anyone proves by saying it is that they haven’t got a clue about nutrition.
This isn’t really a poem, I know. But it’s almost pumpkin time and if I don’t have a post up before midnight, bad things will happen. So you get the idea, but I’ve not had time to play around with words and make it look like it’s poetry…