The bins… the bins…

The stop-start drone of the lorry on the streets, coughing and wheezing along, the sound of wheels on pavement, the mechanical lurching, the shouts of burly binmen, the clap-flapping of lids… Huey Bucket awoke at six in the morning, naked, sweating and twenty-eight years old.  He leapt out of bed.  “The bins!  The bins!” he cried, and ran downstairs, waking his wife in the process.  “Huey!  Huey!  It’s only Tuesday!” she shouted after him before collapsing back to sleep.  But Huey had already streaked through the house and was in the front yard, dragging their wheelie onto the road ready for collection.  It was not until he was stood stark naked in the street, a street suspiciously empty of black wheelie bins, that he realised – it was Tuesday, and he had done it again. Continue reading

Forget All You Have Ever Been Told

The earth does not orbit the sun
And the seasons do not change.
Days do not last twenty four hours
Miscalculations have been made.

The clouds do not bring the rain,
The world is neither flat nor round.
Whether we speak, shout, or clap
It is impossible to make a sound.

We are not young when we are born
We do not die when we get old.
The only way to continue now is to
Forget all you have ever been told.

Some Time To Ourselves

At 8am on Thursday 12th June people across the city awoke, rubbed their eyes and tried to understand why it was not 7am.  They had been fished from their dreams an hour late and now fuzzily tried to work out what had happened.  An hour had slipped by without notice and, having been asleep at the time, no one had any idea how it had happened.

“I told you no one would notice,” I said, as we drove for the hills.  “Have we got any biscuits left?”

“A few.”  Rachel handed me a bourbon and took one for herself.  We had been on the road since five, our little van putt-putting its way up the motorway, weighed down by the swag in the back.  Supplies were depleted and we were both tired. Continue reading

Some Digestive Poems

Eating Faces

Eating faces
Is a lot like
Collecting whisky.

You keep the
Best ones, eat
The nice ones
And don’t touch
The bad ones.

And they taste
Good with ice.

Young Mornings

When young mornings
Stretch their side by side yawns
To wake you up, the day thrums
And gets started with half lights,
Creaky bathtubs and hair dryers
Until young mornings become
Promising young afternoons.

Continue reading

Powered By Bees

George was an empty vessel
With an empty heart and an empty head.
Inside of him was light and spacious
But unused he would be better off dead.

Looking for a hollow human body
There arrived an ambitious swarm of bees
Who moved in and learnt the controls
To make George walk, jump and sneeze.

News of this strange residence spread
And attracted more like-minded bees
To come and find new homes and jobs
In George’s intestines, ears and knees. Continue reading

Trout Fishing In The Airport

It took the officer fifteen seconds to close the door and walk around the desk.  I know because I watched them tick by on my watch like tiny explosions.  Fifteen seconds was just ridiculous.  Fifteen seconds was a quarter of  a minute and I only had ten of those.  My plane sat on the runway, oblivious.  The officer took another twenty seconds to open my bag and pull out a tin of buttons. Continue reading

My Family And Other Biscuits: A Boy’s Diary, Entry #2

On February 18th this year I posted the first part of this story (it can be read here  https://digestivepress.wordpress.com/2008/02/18/my-family-and-…reams%e2%80%9dmy-family-and-other-biscuits-a-boy%e2%80%99s-diary-entry-1-%e2%80%9cchocolate-fudge-crunch-creams%e2%80%9d/).  The second part is a little overdue but here it is.

Howard stood up on his hind legs and nibbled away at a dark chocolate hob nob.  I had changed his name a few days after rescuing him from the supermarket, ‘Oliver’ reminded me too much of the dull dryness of bath olivers and no respectable biscuit enthusiast should be lumbered with that.  No, I needed a good, biscuit-neutral name for my rat.  I settled on Howard and he seemed to approve.  He didn’t argue anyway.  I tried not to think about taking him back.

He was currently busy helping me with a study on the new dark chocolate hob nob, a new find in my favourite aisle of the shop.  It seemed odd to me that the invention of dark chocolate hob nobs had taken so long given the enduring success of dark chocolate digestives and so their emergence called for a comprehensive study.   I have to say that I was underwhelmed by this biscuit, the dark chocolate failing to transform the humble hob nob in the way it does with a digestive.  Howard was still munching his way through the rest of the packet and seemed to be enjoying them, a fact that I would have to report when I wrote up my study. Continue reading