Barton

A late walk for a bit of air after a bit of painting and more paint stripping of the door. I realise it is probably an endless task and I may end up joining the ranks of those who have gone before me and end up just slapping on another layer of paint. I went and took some rubbish to the recycling at Flusco and there was quite a queue with the new system. I nearly came away but got completely absorbed by the radio drama of John Berger’s ‘A Fortunate Man’. It was so affecting and lovely to just sit there and listen to it, watching the rain come and go and then the flies land on my windows when the sun came out. As I sat I looked across at the sign saying ‘No Fly Tipping’ and was then waved through.

Love this poem ...

Mrs Sisyphus (by Carol Ann Duffy)

That's him pushing the stone up the hill, the jerk.
I call it a stone - it's nearer the size of a kirk.
When he first started out, it just used to irk,
but now it incenses me, and him, the abolute berk.
I could do something vicious to him with a dirk.

Think of the perks, he says.
What use is a perk, I shriek,
when you haven't the time to pop open a cork
or go for so much as a walk in the park?
He's a dork.
Folk flock from miles around just to gawk.
They think it's a quirk,
a bit of a lark.
A load of old bollocks is nearer the mark.
He might as well bark
at the moon -
that feckin' stone's no sooner up
than it's rolling back
all the way down.
And what does he say?
Mustn't shirk -
keen as a hawk,
lean as a shark
Musn't shirk!