It wasn’t the headline,
Woman Freed After Getting Head Stuck In Bin In Auchtermuchty
that stopped me searching for your note, saying it was over.
It wasn’t an ASBO from the council promising prosecution if I didn’t refrain from playing ‘Your Song’ by Elton John on a loop at full volume that stopped me broadcasting. If you’d heard it, you’d have rushed home to give me my note in person.
It wasn’t the café owners who chased me away down the tree-lined boulevard where couples sip coffees and shoot the breeze that made me desist from handing out fliers sporting your photo.
Reward paid for information leading to this owner of a missing note
being found and brought home, alive.
It wasn’t the shrink who gave me a felt-tip and instructions to draw two clear circles. One, I had to fill in with all the worries I couldn’t control, the other with ones that I could. It certainly wasn’t her — that witch wrenched her pen back complaining the court just paid her for an hour.
It wasn’t my adoptive mother that stopped me looking.
‘Things often turn up when you least expect them to.’
She’d wise-owled after I’d festooned her drainpipes with your underpants. Vast grey flags of surrender waving in the wind. If only you’d seen them, you’d have brought my note back.
No, it was the fireman, that handsome brute, Bill. Bill held me in his arms. Bill felt my heart beating.
‘Stop howling like an orchestra of mating cats, hinny, and get your heid out that bin.’
Bill asked if I was OK – if I needed help again, not to hesitate, just dial the three nines.
Now I don’t need your stupid note, I’ve got Bill’s number. I’ll call if I start to feel lonely.
No comments:
Post a Comment